Chapter 12

A month later, I moved into the space above the shops on Liberty Avenue. It was a small attic previously used for storage, which I cleared out to fit a bed, a desk, and a small fridge. The space wasn't big, but it was finally mine.

Both commercial properties were already rented out—one for eighteen thousand a month, and the other for thirteen thousand. That brought in thirty-one thousand a month, which was more than three times my previous salary.

My lower back still wasn't in great shape. When I went to the hospital, the doctor diagnosed me with a herniated disc.

"This isn't common at your age," he noted. "How did this happen?"

"Carrying a person for three years," I replied.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Nothing," I muttered.

I slowly started looking for a new job, but I was in no rush. My first priority was nursing my health back to normal.

Word got around that Arthur was having a hard time. The mortgage on his inherited house was sixteen thousand a month, and his company wasn't doing well this year. My sister-in-law sent several messages in the Family ChatLink Group, begging, "Can any of you help us?"

No one replied.

I heard she later posted screenshots of the ignored messages on PhotoStream. Someone in the comments simply asked, "How did you treat Elias back then?" She deleted the post shortly after.

I also heard Beatrice's savings ran out quickly. Of the four hundred and twenty-eight thousand six hundred she was left, taxes and fees meant she actually walked away with less than four hundred thousand. She even went to an attorney to see if the estate could be redistributed, but she was told that a signed will couldn't be changed.

Eventually, she called me.

"Elias, can you lend me some money?"

"How much?" I asked.

"Fif... fifty thousand?"

I took a moment to think about it.

"Beatrice, when you handed me those two thousand dollars back then, you said something. Do you remember?"

She fell silent on the other end of the line.

"You said, 'Thanks for your hard work.' Two thousand dollars for three years of my life. 'Thanks for your hard work.'" I let the silence hang for a second. "I'm returning those words to you," I told her. "Thanks for your hard work, Beatrice."

I ended the call. I didn't lend her the money.

Sunlight shone through the window, spilling warmly into the small attic. Pops's photo sat on my desk, taken long before his stroke. He was smiling so happily in it. Next to the frame lay his letter.

I had read the last line of that letter countless times, and it made me cry every single time. But with every tear, I felt a deep sense of peace. It had all been worth it.

The letter read:

"Elias, you are Pops's greatest pride in this life. Not because you took care of me. It is because you are a good man."

I gently wiped the glass of the photo frame and placed it back on the table. Then, I sat back down and continued eating my breakfast. The sun was truly beautiful today.