For six years, I was the perfect son. Or so I told myself. Every month, like clockwork, I Zelle’d $1,500 to David. I told my wife, “I’m single-handedly keeping that house running.” “Thanks to me, Mom has everything.”
I felt peaceful. I felt generous.
After the service, we went back to the old family home. Immediately, I started doing what people like me do: I judged.
“Dave, why is the front lawn dead?” “The gutters are falling off. This place is losing value.” “And why was Mom so frail in the casket? I sent extra money for that organic meal service. Did you even use it?”
David didn’t answer right away.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a faded t-shirt. He looked wrecked. His hands were shaking, his knuckles swollen. He looked fifty, even though he’s only thirty-two.
I sighed, putting on my “business voice.”
“Look, the best solution is to sell the house. Market is hot right now. I don’t need the cash. We’ll split it 60-40. You keep the bigger share since you stayed behind.”
