Part 2: Ten O’Clock
“Since when?” Dad asked.
“Since you moved into the nursing home. She said she was handling your bills and showed me the power-of-attorney paperwork.”
Dad stayed calm.
“Bobby, have I ever had trouble paying my obligations during the twenty-two years you’ve rented this land?”
“No, sir.”
“Then there’s something you should know.”
He glanced at me.
“Teresa has been paying part of my nursing home costs from her own retirement money because Sherry told her I wasn’t receiving any rent.”
The color drained from Bobby’s face.
“What?”
“Twenty-one hundred dollars a month. For three years.”
Bobby took off his cap.
“Clayton, I had absolutely no idea.”
His voice shook.
“I thought the rent was going toward your care. I wouldn’t have agreed to anything improper.”
Dad nodded.
“I believe you.”
Then he straightened in his wheelchair.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Until we get the paperwork reviewed properly, contact me directly about the next payment. I want to know exactly where my money is going.”
Bobby agreed at once. He also offered to supply copies of every rent check and payment record. Afterward he helped me get Dad safely back into the car, and before we left he apologized again. I told him I understood.
On the drive back, Dad hardly spoke. He held his hat in his lap and watched the countryside. When we reached the nursing home, he finally turned to me.
“Teresa, call your sister.”
My chest tightened.
“What should I tell her?”
“I want both my daughters here tomorrow morning at ten.”
I nodded.
“Alright, Daddy.”
“And tell Sherry to come alone.”
I made the call from the parking lot. Sherry answered cheerfully.
“Hey, Teresa! Did you get the tax papers delivered?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Daddy wants us both to come tomorrow at ten.”
She paused.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“Then what’s this about?”
I took a breath.
“I drove him to the farm today.”
Silence.
“We talked to Bobby.”
The quiet stretched so long I thought she’d hung up. Then she whispered, “Ten o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there.”
That night, Doug sat at our kitchen table going over the retirement withdrawals. He had worked out what we’d paid across three years. The $75,600 in nursing home contributions had also triggered roughly $9,400 in extra taxes.
“That’s close to $85,000 altogether,” he said quietly.
I stared at the papers. We could have replaced our roof. Taken several vacations. Kept more of our retirement. But strangely, the money wasn’t what hurt most. I kept thinking of Sherry holding my hand when I was a frightened little girl. Helping me on my first day of school. She had always been the sister who knew what to do. And now I wondered how she had managed to look me in the eye for three years while keeping such a huge secret.
The next morning I reached the nursing home fifteen minutes early. Dad was already dressed in his favorite green cardigan, waiting in his recliner. Sherry arrived shortly before ten. Her eyes were red, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept.
“Sit down, Sherry,” Dad said gently.
She obeyed. He looked at her for a moment.
“I visited the farm yesterday.”
She nodded.
“Bobby’s doing a good job with the fields.”
Another nod.
“Then he told me where he’d been sending the rent.”
Sherry stared at her hands.
“I’d like you to explain where that money went.”
For several seconds, she didn’t move. Then she began to cry.
“It went toward Roger’s medical bills.”
I closed my eyes. Of all the explanations I had imagined, that was not one of them.
Three years earlier, around the time Dad hurt his hip, Sherry’s husband had suffered a serious heart attack. Roger underwent major surgery, his recovery was complicated, and more treatment followed. Insurance covered much of it, but the family still faced heavy costs. He couldn’t work for months. Their income dropped while the bills kept coming. Eventually they owed more than $61,000.
Sherry wiped her face.
“Collection notices kept arriving. Roger was already frightened about his health. Every time the phone rang, I worried he’d become overwhelmed again.”
She looked at Dad.
“Then Bobby’s first rent check arrived.”
Her voice broke.
“Thirteen thousand dollars.”
She paused.
“I told myself I’d borrow it temporarily. I thought I’d pay it back when Roger recovered.”
She cried harder.
“But then another bill came. And another. And the following year arrived, and I still hadn’t replaced the money.”
I stared at her.
“You told me Daddy had nothing.”
“I know.”
“And you told Daddy his rental income was paying for his care.”
“I know.”
“Sherry, I’ve been withdrawing money from my retirement for three years.”
She covered her face.
“I’m so sorry.”
Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a small spiral notebook. Inside were handwritten records of the farm payments she’d received. Every check. Every date. Every amount.
“I kept track of everything,” she whispered. “I always intended to put it back.”
Dad took the notebook and turned several pages. Then he asked one simple question.
“Sherry, why didn’t you ask me for help?”
She looked up.
“Roger is my son-in-law. I’ve loved that man for decades. Do you really believe I would have refused to help him when he was seriously ill?”
She started crying again.
“I didn’t want to burden you.”
Dad shook his head.
“I own two hundred acres. I’ve worked my whole life. And I can still understand my own finances.”
He paused.
“All you had to do was ask.”
That sentence hit me hard, because I recognized something uncomfortable. I hadn’t asked Dad about his finances either. I had trusted Sherry and made arrangements without involving him. We had both treated him as though he no longer had a say simply because he lived in a nursing home.
Dad looked at me.
“Teresa, pull up a chair.”
I sat beside Sherry. He looked at us both.
“I’m eighty-four years old. My legs aren’t what they used to be. But my mind still works, and this is my money.”
Neither of us interrupted.
“From now on, I want to review my financial statements myself.”
He explained that the farm rent would go into an account he could monitor, with the necessary banking arrangements reviewed and updated. Both daughters would have appropriate access to the statements. No more unexplained transactions. No more decisions made behind his back.
Then he turned to me.
“Teresa, you aren’t paying another $2,100 out of your retirement.”
“Daddy, I can—”
“No.”
His voice was firm.
“You’ve already done more than enough.”
I swallowed.
“Alright.”
Then he looked at Sherry.
“As for the money you used for Roger’s treatment, I’m not going to demand that you return it to me.”
She looked stunned.
“Daddy?”
“If you’d asked me when Roger was sick, I would have helped.”
He paused.
“But there’s something else we need to settle.”
