Months later, I visited them again.
The porch looked exactly as it had on the day I gave them the keys.
Dad sat in his chair overlooking the Pacific.
Mom was planting flowers beside the steps.
I handed them an envelope.
Dad raised an eyebrow.
“What is this?”
“Property taxes for the year.”
He immediately pushed it back.
“Absolutely not.”
I laughed.
“Dad.”
“No.”
“It’s my house.”
He pointed at me.
“And we’re your parents.”
Mom smiled.
“Looks like neither side is giving up.”
Dad leaned back in his chair.
“Good.”
I looked at the ocean.
The waves rolled toward the shore, steady and patient.
For years, I had believed protecting my parents meant giving them money, buying them things, and solving every problem before they knew it existed.
