“Stop it, Frank,” I said, my voice shaking. “You don’t get it. Everything is expensive now. You guys had it easy. You worked at the plant, bought this three-bedroom house on one salary, and retired at 60. You have no idea what it’s like out there.”
The room went dead silent.
Frank put his spoon down. He looked at me, really looked at me. His eyes weren’t angry anymore. They were just sad.
“Easy?” he whispered.
He rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt. There was a long, jagged scar running from his elbow to his wrist.
“I got this when a steel beam slipped in ’78. I wrapped it in a shop rag and finished my shift because if I clocked out, I didn’t get paid.”
He pointed a calloused finger at me.
“Your Grandma packed me a bologna sandwich every single day for thirty years. We didn’t go to restaurants. We didn’t have ‘delivery.’ We had a garden because buying vegetables was for rich folks.”
“But the economy—” I started.
“Interest rates on this house were fourteen percent,” he cut me off. “Fourteen. We didn’t sleep for the first five years wondering if the bank would take it.”
He stood up and walked to his old roll-top desk. He pulled out a small, grey book. A savings passbook.