A few months later, he married Mom.
Not long afterward, they opened a college savings account for me.
There wasn’t much money to spare.
Some months they could contribute a little.
Other months almost nothing.
Ray had his own children to support, household bills to help with, and plenty of expenses of his own.
So I never thought much about the account.
Until the morning of my seventeenth birthday.
Ray knocked on my bedroom door carrying a handmade wooden box.
It wasn’t perfect.
One corner was slightly uneven, and I could see where he had corrected a mistake near the latch.
But my initials were burned carefully into the top.
“J.M.”
“You made this?”
“Took about six weeks.”
Inside were statements from my college account.
But when I turned them over, I discovered something I had never known.
Ray had written little notes beside his contributions.
*Boots can wait — $40.*
*Brought lunch all week — $25.*
*Truck service next month — $60.*
Then I found another.
*Danny needed new glasses. Tight month — $0.*
The following statement read:
*Made it up this month — $80.*
I looked at him.
“You were keeping track of this?”
Ray suddenly looked uncomfortable.
“I just wanted you to know that even when we couldn’t put much away, we were still moving forward.”
At the bottom of the box was a handwritten note.
*Kid,*
*It isn’t enough yet.*
*We’ll keep going.*
*Ray.*
It was probably the least expensive birthday gift I had ever received.
And somehow, it meant more than anything else.
Three hours later, someone knocked on our front door.
Mom answered.
Then I heard a man’s voice.
“I came to see my son.”
I froze.
The stranger standing outside wore an expensive jacket and watch.
Gray touched his temples.
But I recognized him immediately from the few photographs Mom had kept.
My biological father.
He smiled.
“Happy birthday, son.”
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