I purchased the house quietly, the same way my parents had lived their entire lives.
No announcement. No photographers. No emotional speech about how their youngest son had finally earned enough to repay every sacrifice they had ever made. Just a cream-colored mansion by the sea in Newport, Rhode Island, with blue shutters, a wraparound porch, and the Atlantic flashing beyond the dunes.
The deed was under my name, but the home was meant for them to live in for the rest of their lives. That was my anniversary gift to them after fifty years of marriage.
My mother, Helen Whitaker, cried when I placed the keys in her hand. My father, George, simply stood on the porch staring at the ocean, his mouth slightly open, his aged hands gripping the railing as if he feared the house might disappear.
“You already gave us enough, Ethan,” Mom whispered.
“No,” I said. “You gave me enough.”
