Whenever I spoke lovingly about him, she reminded me of his financial struggles.
“Your father loved us,” she’d say. “But love didn’t keep a roof over our heads.”
I never knew how to answer.
Because when I remembered my father, I didn’t think about unpaid bills.
I remembered the pancakes he made on Sunday mornings.
The yellow curtains hanging in our kitchen.
The three little blue birds he’d painted above the window because thunderstorms used to frighten me.
And the wooden swing he’d built beneath the huge oak tree in our backyard.
Those memories were worth more to me than anything money could purchase.
Ethan knew every one of them.
During our first years of marriage, we didn’t have much.
He worked long hours at the garage.
Sometimes he didn’t arrive home until after ten.
He’d walk through the door smelling of oil and cold coffee, then apologize for being late.
