The Cheque

I hate it.

Today I got an envelope from my ‘step-mom’ (the woman married to my father when he died). It had a cheque in it. It was the last thing I expected.

My dad was poor. A war vet who lived in a re-furbished barn.

When I heard my step-mom had asked for my ‘legal name’ and address I figured she was sending me a package of some kind. Maybe memorabilia, pictures. I was hoping for maybe some long lost letter that told me about things I’d asked him for so long that he ignored. About my heritage.

As we wrote recently? He told me very little. He was sick and couldn’t write a lot. So he tucked notes with tiny, teasing bits of information but no real answers, in with gifts of seeds for my garden or books and occasionally an American $50 to help me get by.

Tomorrow would have been his birthday. November 11. “Stop the war, a hero’s been born”, is how he talked about his birthday. Probably why he joined the military.  I’m guessing though. I asked but never got answers.

But I have this stupid cheque. If I didn’t need the money? I’d tear it up because I wanted something so different.

I wanted knowledge of my heritage. I wanted my health questions answered. I wanted more TIME. We only just got to talk again.

And all I have is this stupid cheque.




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