Chapter 5: A Father's Ledger

My dad passed away twenty-two months after his diagnosis. It was autumn, and he left us at three in the morning. I got the call from the hospital, but by the time I rushed over, Ma was already sitting by his bed.

Thomas took the earliest flight back, but it was already afternoon by the time he arrived. Chloe drove for four hours with her kid. I was the one who arranged the funeral—picking the cemetery plot, ordering the wreaths, notifying relatives and friends, writing the obituary, and organizing the reception.

Ma wasn't in a good state of mind during those few days, and Chloe cried so hard she could barely sit straight. Thomas said he would take charge of funding the arrangements. In the end, he contributed five thousand, and then another five thousand.

A large crowd attended the funeral. I stood at the door of the parlor greeting guests, handing white lilies to everyone and murmuring, "Thank you for coming." I stood there from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon without eating a single bite or drinking a drop of water.

The service ended at two o'clock. Afterward, I went back to Dad's room to pack up his belongings: the clothes in his closet, the reading glasses in his drawer, and the chess set on his bookshelf.

In the bottom drawer, I found a locked tin box. I used the key from my dad's keychain to open it. Inside was a kraft paper envelope with a few words written on the front in my dad's handwriting: "For Clara."

My hand trembled a little as I held the thick envelope. I didn't open it right away, but instead looked through the other items in the tin box and found a notebook. I flipped to the first page. It was filled with dense rows of numbers—dates, amounts, and notes on where the money had come from.

"March 2010, Clara transferred 1,000."

"June 2010, Clara paid the electricity bill, 340."

"September 2010, Clara bought formula for Thomas's kid, 680."

Every single expense and every small sum I had given over the years was clearly recorded. I turned to the second page, the third, and then the tenth. There were fifteen years of records, one entry after another.

His handwriting went from clear to messy, and eventually to a trembling scrawl. The last few pages were written during his hospital stay. The letters were crooked, but every number had been pressed down hard into the paper.

"January 2024, Clara transferred 24,000 for hospital fees. Helen told the relatives that Thomas paid for it. He didn't. It was Clara's money."

I sank down onto the floor with the open notebook resting on my knees. I stared at it for a long time before putting it back into the tin box. I locked it, clenching the key tightly in my palm.