Every morning I wake up at 6 o’clock. Old habits die hard, especially when you’ve lived 77 years. I hear the refrigerator door slam and the kitchen Gina is packing breakfast for her husband Noah.
40 minutes later, she knocks on my door not out of politeness but to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep. I slowly sit up on the bed feeling my joints aching. My room is on the first floor, a former guest bedroom, remodeled for me when I moved in with my daughter five years ago.
Moved in is a funny word. I’ve actually always lived in this house, it’s just that no one knows it. The knock on the door is right on schedule.
Earl? You’re not dead? Gina’s voice sounds more annoyed than concerned. Not yet, I answer, as I do every morning. Breakfast is in 20 minutes.
Don’t be late. I hear her leave without waiting for an answer. Gina is my youngest daughter, 42 years old and has always been a difficult child.
Her mother, my late wife Vivian, died when Gina was only 15. Maybe that’s the reason for her coldness. She blames me for staying alive and her mother not.
Or maybe she’s just that kind of person. I gave up looking for an explanation a long time ago. I dress slowly, choosing a clean, long-sleeved shirt.
It’s always cold in the house. Gina saves money on heating, even though her husband Noah makes a good living as a financial analyst. They’re both obsessed with savings.
Every dime in the account, every extra thing in question. Sometimes I think they’d know a lot about money if they ever really needed it. I look in the mirror, a thin old man with thinning gray hair and deep wrinkles around his eyes.
My electrician’s hands are blistered and scarred from minor burns. 45 years I worked as an electrical engineer at the city’s power plant. Honest work, steady pay, modest pension.
At least that’s what everyone thinks. The secret I’ve kept for 20 years sometimes seems heavier than all the electrical cables I’ve ever laid. In 2005, I won the lottery $1,800,000.
I didn’t tell anyone. Not my wife. She was already sick at the time.
Not my kids. Especially the kids. I have two of them.
Gina and my oldest son Weston. Both spoiled, both in constant need of money. Every time Vivian and I helped them financially, they would come back for more.
I knew that if they found out about the winnings, they would squander it in a few years and then blame me for not having enough money. So I did the only sensible thing. I kept quiet.
Put the money in an account at a good interest rate. And a year later, when Vivian was gone, I bought this house in Slidell for $600,000. Three stories.
Spacious. In a nice neighborhood. But instead of listing it, I told the kids I found a good rental.
Earl, you’re late, shouts Gina from downstairs. I leave the room and slowly make my way down to the kitchen. Noah is already sitting at the table, staring at his clipboard.
He barely nods at me. Our relationship is correct, but cold. To him, I’m just his wife’s father.
An old man who has to be tolerated. Good morning, I say, sitting down in my usual seat. Gina puts a bowl of oatmeal in front of me.
It’s the same everyday oatmeal on water. No butter with half a banana. For your health, she says, even though we both know it’s about saving money.
You haven’t forgotten that Weston and the kids are coming over today? Gina asks, pouring herself a cup of coffee. I hope you don’t stay in your room all day like you did last time. I’m not hiding from my own son, I reply, stirring the gray mass in my plate.
Then why did you barely speak to him at Christmas? Gina crosses her arms over her chest. He thinks you don’t love him. I look up from my plate.
When was the last time he called me just to talk, not to ask for money? Noah snorts, not looking away from the screen. Gina throws him a warning glance. He’s a busy man.
He’s got his own logistics company, two kids, and yet he always has time to call when he needs money for a new truck or a warehouse expansion, I shrug. It’s an amazing coincidence. Gina’s face stiffens.
You’re being unfair. We all care about you. Who took you in when you couldn’t live alone anymore? Who cooks your meals, does your laundry, takes you to the doctor? I live in my own house, not yours, I want to say…
But I just nod, as I’ve done hundreds of times before. I’m grateful for the roof over my head. Exactly.
Gina nods contentedly, considering the discussion over. At that moment, Avery, my granddaughter, enters the kitchen. Nineteen years old, a freshman at the local college, she’s the only one in this house who sometimes talks to me out of obligation.
Good morning, everyone. She smiles and comes over to kiss my cheek. How did you sleep, Grandpa? The usual, dear.
Half the night counting sheep, the other half counting my sore feet. Avery laughs and I notice Gina roll her eyes. She’s never understood my sense of humor.
Are you going to class today? I ask my granddaughter. Yeah, until three. Then I have to work at the coffee shop until eight.
She pours herself a cup of coffee and takes an apple from the vase. I can pick you up tomorrow if you want to take a walk in the park. Avery, Grandpa has more important things to do.
Gina intervenes. The plumber’s coming tomorrow to check out his bathroom. It’s always leaking.
I can do both, I say. Plumbers usually come in the morning. We don’t know the exact time, Gina says.
You’d better be home all day. I don’t argue. It’s no use.
Gina always has a reason why I should stay home. I think she’s afraid I’ll die on the street somewhere and she’ll have to deal with the consequences. Avery throws her mother a disgruntled look, but she, too, remains silent.
She’s learned to pick her battles. Okay, I gotta go, she finishes her coffee in one gulp. I’ll see you tonight.
She kisses me on the cheek again and skips out of the kitchen. The front door slams and it’s as if the house is getting colder. Noah rises from the table, gathering his things.
Don’t forget to check the electric bill, he tells Gina. It was suspiciously high last month. His gaze stops on me for a moment and I realize what he’s thinking.
The old man sits at home all day burning electricity. I hardly ever turn on the lights, I say, and I only watch TV in the evenings. No one’s blaming you, Earl, Noah puts on a fake smile.
It’s just that the bills are mounting and your pension isn’t exactly a rubber band, is it? I nod, thinking about my bank account, which has over a million dollars in it, money that no one knows about. Sometimes I wonder why I keep that secret. But then I remember the look in Gina’s eyes when she talks about the money, greedy, calculating, or Weston’s phone calls, always starting with, and ending with a request to borrow a few thousand.
When Noah leaves, Gina starts clearing the table. Do you remember to pay the rent on Monday? she asks, without looking at me. I remember, I answer.
Every month I pay rent. I transfer $2,000 into Gina’s account, money she thinks of as rent to the landlord. In reality, I’m just moving funds between my accounts.
I’m the landlord. And don’t forget the utilities, she adds. This month your share is $350.
I nod silently. My share keeps going up, even though I use minimal electricity and water. Gina thinks it’s fair.
After all, I live in their house, use their benefits. After breakfast, I go back to my room. It’s small, but cozy.
A bed, a desk, a chair by the window, a bookshelf with detectives, which I re-read in a circle. On the table, an old radio receiver, which I restored with my own hands. One of the few pleasures I have left is fixing old electronics.
I sit in the chair and look out the window at the backyard. Spring in Slidell was always beautiful. Magnolias blooming, fresh greenery, birds returning from the south.
Vivian loved this time of year. We would often sit on the back porch of our old house, drinking tea and just watching nature. Sometimes I think she wouldn’t have approved of my lies.
Vivian was always straightforward, honest to the point of ruthlessness. Earl Cunningham, she would say, you’ve turned into a secretive old fox. But then I remember how worried she was about Weston and Gina, how she cried when they came for money again, not interested in her health.
We’ve raised selfish people, she told me once, and I thought maybe she would understand. The sound of a car pulling up pulls me out of my musings. I look out the window.
Weston’s black SUV. My son gets out of the car, followed by his wife Lauren and two teenage children, Ethan and Cora. They rarely visit, even though they live only 20 minutes away.
Weston is 50, but he looks older, full, balding, perpetually tense. His logistics company has been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy for years, but he still buys expensive cars and sends his kids to private schools. I leave the room and go to meet them.
Gina is already opening the door, hugging her brother. Weston, I’m so glad you’re here. Her voice goes up an octave as she speaks to her brother.
Kids, how you’ve grown. The teens mumble greetings without taking their eyes off their phones. Lauren hugs Gina and they exchange compliments.
Then Weston spots me. Hi, Dad. He walks over and awkwardly hugs me.
How’s your health? Still alive, I answer with a smile. It’s good to see you, son. We walk into the living room.
The kids immediately plop down on the couch, staring at their phones. Lauren and Gina retire to the kitchen, discussing some new diet plan. Weston and I are alone.
How’s business? I ask, even though I already know the answer. It’s tough, he sighs. There’s more competition, and customers are demanding more and more for the same money.
You know, Dad, I was thinking. He lowers his voice. Do you have some spare cash? I need to upgrade my truck fleet or we’re going to lose the Blue Ridge shipping contract.
There it is. It hasn’t been five minutes. Weston, you know my situation.
I’m living on my pension, paying Gina’s room and utilities. I know. I know.
He nods quickly. But maybe you have some savings. Something set aside for a rainy day? I’ll pay it back with interest once the contract starts making a profit.
I look at my son, who is fifty years old, and I see the same boy who asked for money for a new bike because the old one wasn’t cool enough. Same look. Same intonation.
No, Weston, I don’t have any savings. His face darkens. I see.
Well, I was just asking. The rest of the visit passes in a tense atmosphere. Weston barely speaks to me.
The children ignore my existence altogether. After lunch, they quickly pack up and leave, citing some urgent business. As the door closes behind them, Gina turns to me.
What did you say to him? He looked upset. The truth. That I didn’t have the money to sponsor his business.
Gina shakes her head. Do you have to be so… callous? He’s your son. He’s trying to keep the business afloat.
And I’m trying to make it to the end of the month on my pension, I pairing. Which, by the way, I’m partially giving to you. Gina presses her lips into a thin line.
You live in my house. You use my food and electricity. It would be weird if you didn’t pay, wouldn’t it? In your house, I think to myself.
How easily she has appropriated my property. How confidently she talks about how I should pay for the right to live in the house I bought with my own money. Of course, I say out loud.
All is fair. In the evening, when the house is quiet, I sit in my room and listen to old jazz on the radio. Quietly, so as not to disturb Gina and Noah.
Over the wall, I can hear them discussing my stubbornness and ingratitude. How I don’t help my own son, even though I must have stashed something. I look at my reflection in the windowpane.
An old man with a bitter smile. Twenty years I’ve kept a secret. Twenty years I’ve lived a double life.
Sometimes I ask myself. Was it worth it? Would it have been better to tell the truth from the beginning? But then I remember the greedy gleam in Weston’s eyes. Gina’s cold calculation.
And I realize, no, I did the right thing. The money wouldn’t have made them better. It would have disappeared faster than I could blink.
It’s times like this that I especially miss Vivian. She was always my compass, my conscience. What would she say now? Would she support me or condemn me? Avery gets home around nine.
I hear her knocking quietly on my door. Grandpa? Are you awake? Come on in, sweetheart, I answer. She slips into the room, tired after a long day, but still finds the strength to smile…
How was your day, she asks, sitting down on the edge of my bed. Your uncle came by, I answer. He asked for money for trucks.
Avery rolls her eyes. The usual. He never just shows up, does he? I shrug.
He’s got his own problems. That’s no excuse to use you, she frowns. Mom’s the same way.
They both think you owe them something. Sometimes it amazes me how perceptive Avery is. She sees things in her 19 that adults in their 40s and 50s don’t.
Your mom takes care of me, I say, even though we both know that’s not entirely true. She cares about the money you pay her. Avery shakes her head.
I’m sorry, I don’t mean to speak ill of Mom, but she could treat you better. I smile and take her hand. You remind me of your grandmother.
She always told the truth, too, even when it was inconvenient. Avery smiles. I wish I could remember her.
I was only four when she died. She would have been proud of you, I say. You’re the only one in this family who isn’t obsessed with money.
Maybe because I’ve never had a lot of it, she laughs. It’s hard to become obsessed with something you don’t have. We talk some more about her studies, about her job at the coffee shop, about the book she’s reading now.
Then she yawns and gets up. It’s time for me to go to bed. I have to get up early tomorrow.
She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Good night, Grandpa. Don’t let them hurt you.
When she leaves, I sit in the chair for a long time staring into the darkness outside the window. It’s times like this that I think maybe I should at least tell Avery the truth. She deserves to know that one day she’ll inherit a small fortune from her poor grandfather.
But then she’d have to keep my secret from her own parents, and that’s not fair to her. No, it’s better to wait. A few more years and she’ll be out of college, back on her feet.
Then maybe it’ll be time for the truth. In the meantime, I will continue to play the role of the old man who lives on a pension and depends on his daughter’s generosity. I’ll pay rent on my own house and endure the leering looks when I turn on the lights during the day.
It’s a strange life, full of lies and pretense, but it’s my choice, my defense, and as long as I can sit in the silence of my room listening to jazz and remembering Vivian, I can live with it. Sunday morning greeted me with a headache. I woke up to the sound of a lawnmower outside my window.
The neighbor across the street always mows his lawn at 8 a.m. sharp on Sundays, regardless of the season. I struggled to sit up on the bed, reaching for the pills I always keep on my nightstand. At my age, pills are becoming as much a part of life as coffee in the morning.
Through the wall, I could hear Gina and Noah talking in the kitchen. Their voices sounded muffled, but I could distinguish the words bills and problems. They’re talking about money again.
Gina is obsessed with saving money, even though she and Noah make enough. Sometimes I think it’s the only topic they really care about. I slowly got dressed and left the room.
The conversation in the kitchen stopped momentarily when I appeared in the doorway. Good morning, I said as I headed for the coffee maker. Gina was sitting at the table with a calculator and a stack of papers, bills, receipts, bank statements.
Noah stood by the window with his arms folded across his chest. Earl, we were just talking about you, Noah said in his business-like tone. Did you remember your rent is due tomorrow? I poured myself a cup of coffee, trying not to sound annoyed.
It’s the same thing every month. I didn’t forget. I’ll wire the money today.
Also, Noah continued, the electricity rate went up again. Your share this month will be $400. I almost choked on my coffee.
$400? Last month it was $350. Inflation, Earl, Noah said, as if he were explaining the obvious to a child. Everything’s getting more expensive.
Plus, you’ve been spending more time at home, watching TV, turning on lights. I hardly ever watch TV, I objected, and I only turn on the lights when I really have to. The meter doesn’t lie, Gina intervened, keeping her eyes on her paperwork.
If you think it’s too much, we can install a separate meter for your room. I knew it was useless to argue. They would always find a way to squeeze more money out of me, even if they had to distort the truth to do it.
I had long suspected that they were overcharging me for my share of the utility bills, but there was no way to prove it. All right, I finally said, $400 is $400. Gina nodded contentedly, as if she’d just won an important deal.
Noah patted me on the shoulder with fake concern. We all have to tighten our belts, man. Times are tough.
I nodded silently, thinking about the million in my account. Tough times. If only they knew.
After breakfast, I went out into the yard to stretch a little. It was a warm day, and the neighbors were out on their lawns, some tending to their flowers, some washing their cars. The normal life of normal people.
I wonder if they have such a complicated relationship with their kids, too. Or was it just me who was so lucky? I walked slowly down the sidewalk, enjoying the sun on my face. The houses in our neighborhood are large, well-maintained, with perfect lawns and neatly trimmed bushes.
Typical middle class, striving to look richer than they really are. My house is one of the largest on the street, three stories high, with a spacious front porch and a backyard overlooking a small pond. It’s a nice house.
It’s just too bad it doesn’t have happiness in it. Mr. Cunningham, good morning. I turned around and saw Harper Dwight, our neighbor on the right.
He’s a friendly man in his fifties, works for an insurance company. We sometimes say a few words when we meet on the street. Good morning, Harper, I said.
It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? Delicious. He came closer, lowering his voice. Have you heard the news? The Browns are selling their house.
They’re asking almost a million. Really? I wasn’t particularly interested in neighborhood gossip, but I kept up the conversation out of courtesy. Yeah, and you know what? It’s been seen a few times already.
Harper was clearly enjoying his role as informant. The realtor says there’s a lot of interest. Our neighborhood’s getting more and more popular.
Prices are skyrocketing. I nodded, thinking about my own house. If the Browns can ask a million for a house smaller than mine, how much is my property worth now? When I bought it 20 years ago, I paid $600,000.
The real estate market in Slidell has gone up a lot since then. Have you thought of selling? Harper asked suddenly. It’s such a big house for the three of you.
It must be hard to keep it in order. I smiled. It’s not mine, Harper.
I’m just renting a room from my daughter. It was a standard lie I’d been repeating for years. Sometimes I started to believe it myself.
Oh, yes, of course, Harper nodded. I’m sorry, I forgot. Well, tell your daughter that if she ever decides to sell, I know a great realtor.
My brother-in-law, actually. He specializes in high-end real estate. I’ll be sure to tell her.
I lied and said goodbye to Harper, continuing my walk. The thought of selling my house had never seriously crossed my mind before. Why sell the place I’d lived in for so many years? But now, after my conversation with Harper, the idea was lodged in my mind.
What if I do sell the house? What would Gina do when the real owner decided to put the property on the market? I chuckled as I pictured her face. But then my thoughts took a more serious turn. Why not? Why don’t I sell the house and start living my own life, without constant reproaches, without having to pay for the right to live in my own house, without daily humiliation? Vivian would call it petty revenge.
She had always been above such things. Earl, she would have said, you’re becoming just like them. But maybe this time she would understand.
Maybe, seeing the way Gina treated me, she’d approve of my decision. I remembered how Vivian and I had met at a dance at the local club in 1968. I was 20.
She was 19. She was the prettiest girl in the room, tall with brown hair and a laugh that made everyone around her smile. We married a year later, bought a little house on the outskirts of Slidell.
I worked as an electrician. She as a school teacher. We were happy, despite our modest income.
And then the kids were born, first Weston, then Gina, and everything changed. They never appreciated what they had. They always wanted more.
Weston demanded expensive toys. Gina demanded fancy clothes. Vivian and I worked overtime to make sure they had everything they needed.
But it was never enough. And when Vivian got sick, they didn’t even bother to visit her regularly in the hospital, too busy with their own lives. I sighed, coming back to reality.
The walk took me to a small park at the end of the street. I sat down on a bench watching the ducks on the pond. What would Vivian say about my current life? Would she approve of my lies? Probably not.
Vivian always preferred straightforwardness. Tell them the truth, Earl, she would probably advise. Stop hiding.
But it was too late for the truth. Too many years had passed. Too many lies had accumulated.
If I confessed now, they would never forgive me for my deception. Not that I particularly valued their forgiveness, but the thought of more family discord was hard. When I got home for dinner, I found Gina in a foul mood.
She was thrashing around the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors loudly. What’s wrong? I asked her gently. The boiler broke, she said.
Again. Third time this year. This house just eats up money.
I sat at the table watching her fumbling. Maybe I should call another handyman. The one who came last time didn’t inspire confidence.
Gina turned to me sharply. You’re an expert on boilers now? Her voice oozed sarcasm. Or maybe you’ve got spare money for a new handyman.
I remained silent, knowing that any answer would only add fuel to the fire. Exactly, she continued. You sit here, criticizing.
And who’s going to pay? Me and Noah, as always. Do you know how much it costs to run this house? Do you know how much we spend on repairs, insurance, taxes? Yes, I do, I wanted to say. I’ve been paying for it for twenty years.
Instead, I just nodded. I understand it’s expensive. You don’t understand anything, Gina sat across from me, folding her arms across her chest.
You live here, you have all the amenities, and all you have to do is pay your share on time. But even that’s a problem. I always pay on time, I objected, feeling the anger boiling up inside me…
