“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“The box. The account. Everything.”
He shrugged.
I asked him the same question I had asked before.
“You didn’t have to do any of that. So why did you?”
For once, he had no joke.
He looked down at the sink for a moment.
Then he gave the simplest answer imaginable.
“You’re my kid.”
That was all.
No expensive gift.
A month later, Ray finally bought himself new work boots.
The college account continued growing.
Slowly.
Eventually, instead of writing down what he had sacrificed, Ray began leaving different notes on the statements.
*Passed chemistry somehow — $50.*
*Scored a touchdown — $30.*
And one I kept forever:
*Proud of you, kid — $100.*
My biological father eventually contacted me again.
The next time, there was no expensive car.
And he never mocked Ray in front of me again.
