Chapter 1

My name is Garry Finch, I'm 65 years old, and I collect a pension of $7,800 a month.

But for the past three years, every single month, without fail, I've sent $5,000 to my son's family to help with their household expenses.

My wife passed away young, and I know it isn't easy for young people to put down roots in another city. The mortgage and the car loan had them gasping for air, and as their father, I figured any little bit I could give would help.

Then, at that one family dinner, my daughter-in-law suddenly smiled at me and said, "Dad, from now on just give us $3,000 a month."

My heart warmed, and I was about to praise her for being so reasonable, when my son, his eyes red, blurted out a sentence that nailed me to the spot.

It was an early autumn evening, and I was walking slowly home from the farmers' market, carrying a cloth bag.

Inside were two bundles of wilted spinach and a piece of pork belly the owner had marked down to half price just after closing his stall.

As I passed the deli on the corner, the smell of roast duck drifted out and went straight up my nose. I swallowed, but still quickened my pace.

"A roast duck runs a few dozen dollars, enough vegetables to feed me for three days," I calculated silently.

Back in the empty house, I put the groceries in the refrigerator and, out of habit, glanced at the calendar on the living room wall.

Today was the 15th.

I dried my hands, fished my reading glasses out of the drawer and put them on, then took out my smartphone with its slightly cracked screen.

I opened the mobile banking app with practiced ease, entered the card number I knew backward and forward, and transferred $5,000.

With a "ding" of a text alert, the screen popped up confirming the transfer had gone through.

Looking at the $2,800 left in my account, I let out a long breath.

I'd been going through this same routine for three whole years.

My pension really isn't small — $7,800 a month.

By rights, an old man living alone, no illness, no trouble, that money would be plenty to sip tea and play chess every day and have fish and meat at every meal.

But I forced myself to live pinched and tight.

My clothes were ones my wife bought me years ago, when she was still alive; the cuffs had gone pale from washing. If an appliance broke, I'd fix it if I could, and if not, I'd make do with a secondhand one.

The neighbors all laughed at me, said I got stingier the older I got, turned into a real Justin Roy of a miser.

But they didn't know I was saving this money to keep my son Stewart afloat.

Three years ago, my son and his wife bought a school-district condo in a neighboring city on a mortgage. Add the car loan and their newborn son, and the young couple's finances were suddenly stretched thin.

I can't forget how worn out Stewart looked the day he came back to see me.

He slumped on the sofa and chain-smoked half a pack of cigarettes, his hair a mess like a bird's nest, his eyes shot through with red.

"Dad, I'm still two thousand short on next month's mortgage, and I really can't borrow any more money." He buried his head in his hands, his voice trembling.

In that moment, my heart felt like something had grabbed it hard.

Before my wife passed, she held my hand and told me over and over that we only had this one son, and no matter what, we had to help him build a family and a life.

"Stewart, don't be scared. Dad's here."

From then on, I set myself a rule: every month, once my pension came in, I'd take out $5,000 and wire it to the young couple.

I thought this money would be like a timely rain, dousing the anxiety in their lives.

I believed that as long as I, their father, kept giving off light and heat, my son could stand up straight and hold his head high out there.

Every time I finished a transfer, I even felt a quiet swell of pride.

See, I told myself, I may be old, but I haven't become a burden to my children — I'm still the pillar of this family.

But I never once imagined that this self-satisfied giving would one day turn into a knife hanging over this family.

At the end of the month, my son and his family of three came back over the weekend to visit me.

To welcome them, I went to the morning market before daybreak to wait in line, bought the liveliest sea bass, and cut off two pounds of the finest pork ribs.

I spent the whole afternoon busy in the kitchen until my back ached, but looking at the four steaming dishes and a soup on the table, my heart felt sweeter than honey.

At first the mood at the table was warm and easy.

My daughter-in-law, Penelope, kept putting food on my grandson's plate while chatting with me.

"Dad, your cooking is out of this world — even better than the restaurants," Penelope said with a smile.

"If you like it, eat more. You're both busy with work, and takeout has no nutrition." I cheerfully set a piece of braised pork rib on my son's plate.

But Stewart was quiet.

He kept his head down, picking at his rice, poking at the ribs in his bowl without eating a single bite.

I figured he was just worn out from work and didn't think much of it.

Halfway through the meal, Penelope set down her chopsticks, picked up a napkin, and dabbed her mouth gracefully.

She glanced at Stewart, then turned to me, an especially gentle smile spreading over her face.

"Dad, actually, the reason we came back today is there's something I wanted to talk over with you."

I quickly put down my chopsticks. "What is it? Did something change with Stewart's job?"

"No, no," Penelope said, waving her hand, her smile turning even sweeter. "It's about the money you send us every month."

My chest tightened. Could it be that $5,000 wasn't enough? Prices had been going up lately, and my grandson had started early-learning classes, so the expenses really were high.

I calculated to myself that if it truly wasn't enough, I could dip into my little burial savings to make up the difference.

But what Penelope said next made me breathe a sigh of relief.

"Dad, thanks to your help these past three years, the pressure of our mortgage isn't so bad anymore."

"Stewart and I talked it over. You're getting on in years, and you can't keep making yourself suffer."

"From now on, cut back a little on what you give us each month. Just $3,000 will be fine."

Hearing that, I froze for a moment, and then a huge wave of warmth surged up in my heart.