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Five thousand wouldn’t last us long. Panic and anxiety crept up my spine as I contemplated how to make this money stretch—I wasn’t even sure it would cover the bills already piled up. The electricity bill alone for this house was insane.
The worry and stress came flooding back, pushing against my chest with a heaviness in my chest.
I mean, at least the house was paid for, that was something, but weren’t there taxes or something? I had to get a job! Could we even live off of minimum wage?
"Maybe someone in your office could hire me,” I rushed, “I’m pretty much a professional multitasker?—”
"Sweetheart, look." He squirmed to the edge of his seat, his back straight, his portfolio and phone in his hand. He was clearly done with this conversation and ready to move on. "My suggestion? Sell the house. You'll get enough from that to pay for both yours and Callie's college. You'll have enough to live off of for a while."
“But I... I don't even know how to do that."
"It's okay," he smiled at me. "I've given you the name of a trusted real estate agent." He pat the stack of papers on the table, "His card's right here, when you're ready, okay?"
I stared dazedly at the pile of papers that was all that was left of my father's estate.
I was empty inside, hollowed out.
Everything was gone?
"I know it's a shock. And I hate to do this to you, on your most important birthday, too.”
The uncomfortable silence stretched. He began to fidget with the papers again, re-reading the first few pages and I…maybe there was something there. Something he’d missed. I waited, tight with anticipation.
Something…
“I wish I had better news for you,” he repeated, closing the portfolio.
I met Callie’s eyes, apprehension making my throat dry and my stomach churn. She fiddled with the rings on her fingers, her own eyes wide.
Standing, he put his hand on my shoulder, “I know this is hard, but you will get through it,” he squeezed tight, "I promise." There was a flash of something dark in his gaze, anger or resentment and suddenly, my response caught in my throat.
I thought of his daughter. How it must feel to lose a child.
I could understand the anger that came with death sometimes.
So much of it swirling around inside me.
Why didn’t dad tell me he was sick?
Why didn't he trust me with the truth?
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked, glancing towards the door. "Or should I stay longer? I can go over everything with you, but really, there is nothing much else to say."
"No, it's okay." Standing, I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and shook his extended hand. "I'll call you if I have any questions."
“Then I will say goodbye. I wish I had better news for you girls. Your father was always good to me, and he was so sick in the end... I couldn't break his heart by telling him about all this. I wanted him to have a peaceful death. I hope you understand."
Callie didn't answer him, but stared at the table, her teeth sunken in to her lower lip, keeping her own emotions at bay.
"Of course," I said, if only to get him out of the room, shaking his extended hand once more.
"Well, again please call if you have any questions,” he said, walking towards the door, and then he was gone, and the sound of his footsteps down the hallway the only sound for a long time.
And in the silence, I suddenly realized that everything was down to me now. What the hell was I going to do?
After a long while, Callie spoke. “Your birthday sucks.” She pushed the envelope forward, “Here, this was supposed to be something special, but…well…happy birthday.”
Pulling it out, I stared in awe at the painting—colors that suspiciously matched the paint splattered on her tank top. She must’ve stayed up finishing it. “Oh shit, Callie. This is amazing.” She’d painted an exact replica of a picture of her and me when we were kids. We had our arms slung around each other. I was missing a tooth.
