But I still didn’t understand the coat. The shoes. The vacation we never took.
“Then why did you say no?” I insisted. If the money was his, why couldn’t he buy a coat?
My father closed his eyes.
“This is the part for which I have no good excuse. Your mother demanded discipline from me, and I became rigid. At first, I only had to set aside a fixed amount. Then I began to believe that any unnecessary expense was a failure.
My mother smiled sadly and added something that left me indifferent: that blue coat I remembered had been denied to her; she had bought it two weeks later. My father had foreseen the winter bonus and the discount for factory workers. Only the word “no” remained engraved in my twelve-year-old memory.
The diagnosis that changed everything.
Then my mother pulled out the last document: a recent notarized deed. The house had been registered in his name so that it would be protected if my father died first. Along with the minutes, a power of attorney, and a complete savings statement. Everything was organized.
—Why now? —I asked.
—Because Roberto was diagnosed with the disease two months ago.
My breath caught. Death wasn’t immediate, but doctors had diagnosed a serious heart problem that would require treatment and possibly surgery.
“I didn’t want to tell him before the anniversary,” she muttered.
I was immediately angry. Forty years of being known as a tyrant, but he couldn’t explain himself. His response silenced me:
—Because my reputation has never seemed more important to me than your mother’s peace of mind.
The blue coat, finally
