“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Losing them is hard on anybody. For someone his age, it can be really isolating. People stop going out. They stop talking on the phone. It happens faster than you’d think.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”
She ran a new hearing test. Dad’s hearing had gotten a little worse in three and a half years, which is normal. She recommended the newest version of the same model, slightly stronger, rechargeable, with the same Bluetooth connection to his phone.
Then she printed the quote and slid it across the desk.
The new pair came to $4,300. That included the fitting, follow-up adjustments for a year, and a new three-year loss and damage warranty.
“We have financing options,” Dr. Nguyen said gently.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’ll pay today.”
I took out my debit card for our joint savings account, the one labeled MOM’S 60TH.
Dad saw the number on the quote and grabbed my arm.
“Kayla. That’s too much. That’s your money.”
I didn’t argue. I wrote on my legal pad in big block letters and held it up so he could read it.
IT’S FAMILY MONEY. YOU’RE FAMILY.
He read it. His chin trembled. He looked down at his big, scarred hands, the hands that had climbed poles for thirty-eight years, and didn’t say anything.
I handed the card to the receptionist. She ran it, and the machine beeped. Approved.
There was $200 left in the account labeled MOM’S 60TH.
Out in the parking lot, Dad stopped beside my car and kept shaking his head.
“That’s your money, Kayla,” he said again, too loud. “Your and Josh’s money. You been saving it for something.”
I didn’t tell him what for. I’ve never told him. He doesn’t know to this day that the money was meant for Cindy’s cruise. I think it would break his heart, and I think he’d try to pay it back, a hundred dollars at a time out of his pension, for the rest of his life.
