I was standing in my garage workshop, carefully sanding down the edges of a birdhouse I’d been building for my grandson Oliver, when my phone buzzed on the workbench. The afternoon sun was streaming through the small window, casting long shadows across the sawdust-covered floor. I’d been working on this project all week, planning to give it to Oliver during our family trip next month.
The Alaska cruise was supposed to be the highlight of our summer, something I’d been looking forward to for months. I wiped the sawdust from my hands onto my jeans and reached for the phone, expecting maybe a text from my neighbor about our weekly chess game, or perhaps a reminder about my dentist appointment. Instead, I saw my son Michael’s name on the screen.
I smiled, thinking he was probably texting about last-minute cruise details, or maybe asking if I needed him to pick anything up before we left. But as I read the message, the smile froze on my face. «Hey Dad, need to talk to you about the cruise.»
«Vanessa and I have been discussing it, and we think it might be better if this trip was just the three of us. You understand, right? It’s important for us to have some quality family time with Oliver. We can all do something together another time.»
I read it again, then a third time. Each time, the words felt like they were rearranging themselves into something even more painful. «Just the three of us.»
«Quality family time.» «Another time.» I set the phone down slowly and looked at the half-finished birdhouse.
Behind my reflection in the darkened phone screen, I could still see Michael’s message glowing, the words burning themselves into my vision. My hands were trembling slightly, and it wasn’t from the power sander I’d been using. The Alaska cruise wasn’t just any trip.
I’d spent months planning it, researching the best routes, the most family-friendly excursions. I’d booked a suite with connecting rooms specifically so Oliver could easily come between our cabins. I’d even arranged for a private whale-watching tour because Oliver had been obsessed with orcas since he was five years old.
The total cost was sitting at just over $18,000, all charged to my credit card. And now, apparently, I wasn’t invited to my own family vacation. I walked back into the house, my mind racing.
The living room still had photos of my late wife Sarah scattered across the mantle. She’d passed away four years ago after a brutal fight with breast cancer, and raising Michael through that loss had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Or so I thought.
It seemed I hadn’t done such a great job after all. I sat down at my kitchen table, the same table where Sarah and I had shared countless meals, where we’d helped Michael with his homework, where we’d celebrated birthdays and holidays. My coffee mug was sitting there from this morning and I picked it up, even though the coffee inside had long gone cold.
I needed something to hold onto while I processed what I’d just read. See, this wasn’t just about a cruise. This was about everything I’d done for Michael and Vanessa over the past five years.
When Sarah got sick, our savings took a massive hit. The treatments, the experimental therapies we’d hoped would save her, the home care in those final months. It had cost us nearly everything we’d built together.
After she passed, I was left with the house, my teacher’s pension, and not much else. But I was okay with that. I’d had 37 beautiful years with the love of my life, and our son was doing well.
That’s all that mattered. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. Michael had come to me three years ago, with Vanessa, his girlfriend of two years.
They wanted to buy a house in Burlington, just outside Toronto. The market was insane, they said. They’d been outbid on six properties. They needed help with the down payment. More than that, they needed me to co-sign the mortgage because Michael’s job as a marketing coordinator didn’t quite meet the bank’s requirements, and Vanessa’s income from her yoga studio was too inconsistent.
I’d hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to help my son, but because I knew that co-signing meant I was fully responsible if they couldn’t make payments. But Michael had looked at me with those eyes, the same eyes Sarah had, and said, «Dad, we really need this. We’re planning to start a family, and we need stability.»
So I signed. $125,000 added to their down payment, my name on a $400,000 mortgage. Six months later, they got engaged.
Vanessa wanted a party. Not just any party, but an engagement celebration at one of Toronto’s upscale venues. Michael had pulled me aside and explained that Vanessa’s family had certain expectations, and they couldn’t afford to disappoint them. «Could I possibly help out?» $15,000 later, they had their party.
Ice sculptures, premium open bar, a live band, the works. I’d smiled through the whole thing, even when Vanessa’s mother had made a comment about how «generous» Michael was to give everyone such a lovely evening.
Then came the wedding last year. Another $25,000. I’d refinanced my house to help cover it because, by that point, my savings were nearly depleted. But it was fine. It was all fine.
Michael was happy. Vanessa seemed happy. And Oliver, their surprise pregnancy turned beautiful boy, had become the light of my life after Sarah’s death.
I’d been the one at the hospital when Oliver was born because Michael had to work and Vanessa’s mother was in Mexico. I’d been the one who helped with the night feedings when they brought him home. I’d been the one who showed up every Sunday for family dinner, bringing groceries because I noticed their fridge was often embarrassingly empty, despite their «thriving» careers.
And now, apparently, I was too much of a burden to bring on a family vacation that I’d paid for. My phone buzzed again. Another text from Michael. «Also, Dad, we’re going to need to use your credit card for some expenses on the trip.»
«Our cards are pretty maxed out right now. We’ll pay you back, promise.» Something inside me cracked.
Not broke, exactly. More like crystallized. Became clear and sharp and cold.
I called him immediately. He answered on the third ring, and I could hear Oliver singing in the background, that high, pure voice that always made me smile. «Hey, Dad, what’s up? Did you get my message?»
«I did,» I said, keeping my voice steady. «I need you to explain something to me, Michael. Help me understand what ‘just the three of us’ means when I’m the one who booked and paid for this entire trip.» There was a pause.
Then I heard him say something muffled, his hand probably over the phone’s microphone. When he came back, his voice had taken on that particular tone he used when he was trying to «manage» me. I recognized it from when he was a teenager, trying to explain why he’d missed curfew.
«Dad, don’t take it personally. Vanessa just thinks that, you know, given your age and everything, the cruise might be too much for you. All that walking, the excursions, the late nights. We don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or like you’re holding us back.»
«My age,» I repeated. «I’m 62, Michael. I still go for a five-kilometer run three times a week.»
«I volunteer at the community center. Last month, I helped renovate your sister’s deck.»
«I know, Dad, but…» What? Another pause. Then Vanessa’s voice came through, sharp and clear. She must have taken the phone from him.
«Bob, look, Michael’s too nice to say it, but I’m not. This trip is for our nuclear family. You’re not part of that.»
«Oliver needs to bond with his actual parents, not his grandfather who spoils him constantly and undermines our parenting. Plus, honestly, we’re planning to have my parents join us for part of the cruise, and it would just be too crowded with you there, too.»
