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I looked at my childhood home, where I’d spent most of my life. I hadn’t realized until now how strange it would feel, knowing Dad had already sold the property to someone else, and was a tenant in his own home.
“You don’t have to sell it,” I said to my father, who stood beside me. “I can loan you some money, and you can—”
“And I can keep an old, run-down, ugly house for sentiments that no one cares about but you?” he asked rhetorically. “No, thanks. And I told you last time that I don’t want anyone’s charity, didn’t I?”
“But it’s not charity if you’re taking it from your kids,” I shot back. “You gave me money all the time when I was a kid. Was that charity too?”
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