His answer never changed.
“The route’s my responsibility.”
To me, it was just a paper route. A small, stubborn routine that seemed to define the limits of his retirement.
Then, six months ago, the inevitable happened.
He was halfway through the Sunday delivery—the thickest edition—when he had a heart attack. Fast. Sudden. He collapsed at the curb on Maple Street, one hand resting on the bundled papers, the other pressed to his chest.
The funeral was small. Quiet. Just like Patrick.
Neighbors came. A few of my mother’s old friends. Me. We stood around, unsure what to do with our hands or our grief, when a man in a crisp suit—slightly too new—walked in. He didn’t quite fit. He wasn’t openly mourning. He seemed more… official.
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