Sometimes they would leave together carrying heavy toolboxes or old electronics, and I always assumed they were working on broken lawnmowers or rusty cars in Frank’s garage down the road.

By the time I reached twenty-three, Dad and I barely spoke more than five words to each other in a week.

We passed each other in the narrow hallway like cold strangers, and on the first morning of every month, I silently placed two hundred and fifty dollars in cash on the kitchen table.

Five years after Dad started demanding monthly rent from me, he was diagnosed with terminal illness and passed away.

I had spent years imagining how peaceful and quiet the house would feel once he was gone, but after his funeral service, I stood in the hallway staring at his dirty work boots by the front door, completely unable to move them.

We had barely spoken during his final week in the hospital room, and our last brief conversation had been about a leaking kitchen faucet.