Frank cut me off with a sharp motion.
“I have savings,” he said. “I do not have safety.”
I swallowed.
Frank leaned on the table.
“You think I eat beans because I’m proud,” he said. “I eat beans because I’m scared.”
That sentence landed in my chest like a brick.
He kept going, quieter now.
“You know why I saved?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Not to feel superior,” he said. “Not to win an argument with my grandson.”
He looked away, toward the dark window.
“I saved because I watched men get old,” he said, “and I watched the world stop caring.”
He turned back.
“I saved because I didn’t want to beg,” he said. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
My throat tightened.
I wanted to tell him he wasn’t a burden.
But the truth was… I’d been living in his basement.
If anyone was a burden, it was me.
Frank slid another paper toward me.
This one had a list of monthly costs.
Not subscriptions.
Not lattes.
Something else.
A care facility brochure.
General name. No branding.
The kind of place you see in movies and hope you never need.
At the bottom was a monthly number that made my stomach drop.
“People argue about coffee,” Frank said softly. “They argue about burgers.”
He tapped the brochure.
“This is what eats a lifetime,” he said.