I sat there for a long time.
Maybe it’s time to take inventory of everything I’ve given and finally ask what’s left for me.
I used to be an accountant.
I remember every dollar, but I never used that skill to count what I’d given away.
Not until this week.
I printed the bank statements and laid them out on the old dining table, which also serves as my desk now.
The maplewood is scratched in places from the time I dropped a plate last year.
A red pen sat next to my tablet, a cup of coffee since morning.
I wasn’t doing this to blame anyone.
I just needed to know how much of my life I’d poured into others without ever being named.
First line, $200 a month for internet for four straight years since Hie said, “We’ll cover it. Mom, just keep the account in your name so it doesn’t get shut off.”
I don’t remember if I nodded or just stayed quiet.
Either way, the total came to $9,600.
Next home, repairs the year.
Travis’s basement flooded.
I held the insurance fronted the cost $1,4500.
Then the down payment to help with her car, $6,200.
Summer classes for Becca, $1,800.
Emergency hospital bill when Jonah had a high fever two winters ago, $3,200.
And that’s not even counting the meals, the toys, the electric bills I quietly paid.
I put it all into a simple spreadsheet. Rows for each item, columns for each year.
The final number, $276,800.
I stared at that number for a long time.
Not because of how much it was, but because I’d never realized how much I could give and still survive.
Not comfortably, just survive without feeling like I had anything left.
My phone sat silent on the table.
I pressed the button and left a voicemail for the law office I’d used for years.
I need to stop all recurring transfers, and I’d like to schedule a review of my authorizations.
My hand didn’t shake.
It was just quiet.
That afternoon, I stopped by Maple Bean, a small diner that still makes toast crisp on both sides, like they did when I worked with the retired accountants of circle.
The tables are round in steel.
The waitress still remembers. I prefer peppermint tea over coffee.
Silus was already there, more silver in his hair than last time, but his back still straight.
We’d worked together on a few fundraisers after retirement.
Heard you’re thinking about revisiting your will, he said as I sat down.
I nodded.
“I think it’s time to redefine what my share really means.”
Silas didn’t press.
He just pulled out his notebook and handed me a page.
I usually write this down for retirees, but I think it fits you better.
They didn’t invite you because you weren’t worthy. They didn’t invite you because they assumed you’d always walk in anyway.
I let out a short laugh.
Maybe I did walk in too often.
We sat a while longer, not saying much.
Sometimes retired people know how to care without intruding.
Silus ordered a second iced lemon tea.
I didn’t get anything else.
I used to think that if I didn’t help, they’d struggle, I said as the soft diner lights began to dim with the late afternoon.
Silus didn’t answer.