Ten years later, my assistant knocked on my office door. “Sheila, there’s someone here to see you. Says he’s your father.”

I took the elevator down, and there he was. But he looked terrible, like he’d aged fifteen years. He was thin, pale, and frail.

“I have cancer,” he said finally as we sat in a cafe. “Pancreatic. Doctors say I’ve got maybe two or three years.”

Despite everything, he was still my dad. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “Is there anything I can do?”

He took a deep breath. “The house. I’m behind on the mortgage payments. The bank’s threatening to foreclose. I want you to buy it from me. Pay off what I owe, and it’s yours. That way, at least it stays in the family, and your mom and Emma don’t lose their home.”