I looked across the picnic table, waited until he finished laughing, and said, “Funny. Tell them how many times you’ve asked me for money.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
Greg smirked at first like I was joking. Then he saw I wasn’t. I reminded him about the $2,000 he needed when his business account got overdrawn. The $1,500 he borrowed when his truck got repossessed. The money for his roof after the storm. Every time came with the same promise: I’ll pay you back next month.
He never did.
His face went red. “That’s not—”
“It is,” I said. “And I never mentioned it because I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
My son finally looked up from his plate.
Greg’s wife was staring at him. My wife had gone completely still beside me.
Then my son quietly said, “Dad, you helped him all those times?”
I shrugged. “Family helps family.”
Nobody laughed after that.
The rest of dinner was awkward. Greg barely spoke. For once he wasn’t the loudest person at the table.
Three days later he showed up at my house unannounced. I figured he was coming to yell at me.
Instead he stood on the porch holding an envelope.
Inside was a check for the first payment he’d ever made on what he owed.
He said, “I deserved that.”
I told him the money wasn’t the point.
The point was my kid.
For fifteen years I’d let Greg take his shots because they landed on me. The second he aimed one at my son, I was done being polite.
My son starts his apprenticeship next month.
And he still keeps that acceptance letter pinned above his desk. No thanks to Greg.