She told me the week he went in. We were standing in the hallway outside his room, and she was holding her purse in front of her with both hands like a shield.
“The savings all went on the hospital and the rehab,” she said. “And Bobby’s quit the crop ground, Teresa. He’s just running cattle out there now for keeping the fences up. There’s nothing coming in but Daddy’s checks.”
I believed her.
Why would I not believe her? She was my big sister. She had Daddy’s power of attorney, because she lived eleven miles from him and I lived forty, and because she’d always been the one who handled the paperwork in our family. She’d had a lawyer in town draw up a durable power of attorney the week after Daddy’s fall. Daddy signed it in his hospital bed with the pain medicine still in him.
I went home that night and sat down with my husband, Doug, at our kitchen table.
Doug drove a road grader for the county highway department for twenty-eight years. He doesn’t waste words, and he didn’t waste any that night.
“We’ll pay it,” he said. “Your daddy fed half this county one way or another. We’re not going to let him sit in that home worrying about money.”
He was right that Daddy couldn’t have gotten on Medicaid anyway, not with 200 acres in his name. And Daddy would have died before he sold that land.
So we paid it.
The next morning, I called the man who handles our retirement account at the Edward Jones office in town and set up a monthly withdrawal from my IRA. $2,100 on the first of every month, deposited into our checking, then straight out again to the nursing home.
“That’s a pretty big draw for your age, Teresa,” he said carefully. “You sure about this?”
“It’s my daddy,” I said.
He didn’t ask again.
We put off the new roof on our house. The shingles over the back bedroom had been curling for two years, and we’d been saving for it, $11,000, the estimate was. We set out pans when it rained hard.
We stopped talking about the trip to see the Smoky Mountains. Doug and I had been talking about that trip for twenty years. We used to lie in bed and plan it. Which cabin. Which overlooks. Which pancake house.
We just stopped talking about it.
And I never once complained to Sherry. I never once asked her to show me a statement.
That was my mistake, and I own it. I trusted a piece of paper I’d never seen, because the person holding it was my sister.
Now I’d seen the paper. It was sitting on my steering wheel. And it said Bobby Whitt had paid my father $26,000 in rent last year.
Bobby Whitt was not a man who sent a form to the government unless the money had actually changed hands.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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