But life kept getting in the way. My car needed repairs. My hours at work were cut. Every time I thought I was getting ahead, another expense dragged me backward.
And every month, Dad still expected his $250.
Meanwhile, he came home with beer or new fishing gear while I sat in my room, gluing the soles back onto my worn-out work shoes.
Sometimes, we went an entire week without saying more than a few words to each other. We passed in the hallway like two strangers sharing the same house.
Five years later, Dad died unexpectedly.
For years, I had imagined how peaceful life would be without him. But after the funeral, I found myself standing by the door, staring at his old work boots, unable to bring myself to put them away.
That evening, his best friend, Frank, knocked on my door. He carried a cardboard box sealed tightly with packing tape.
