I remembered 1983. I had forgotten, but now it all came rushing back. We were young, broke, and exhausted. We had a terrible, screaming argument about money. I was so angry I grabbed my coat and ran out into the freezing November rain.

I walked three blocks to the payphone on the corner, planning to call my mother to come pick me up.

But when I got to the booth, I reached into my pockets. I had nothing. Not a single coin. I stood in the rain, crying, feeling completely trapped and humiliated. I had to walk back to the house with my tail between my legs.

When I walked through the door, Arthur was sitting at the kitchen table. He didn’t yell. He didn’t say, “I told you so.” He just looked at my wet hair and my red eyes, and he looked absolutely heartbroken.

The next morning, the very first quarter appeared on my nightstand.

He had kept that promise for forty-three years. Every single day, he was giving me the means to leave him, just in case I ever felt trapped again. He was giving me my freedom, twenty-five cents at a time.

I looked up, and Sophie was standing in the doorway, watching me with those big, quiet Arthur eyes.

“Are you sad, Grandma?” she asked.

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve and held out my arm. She ran over and climbed into the bed beside me, burying her face in my shoulder.

“No, sweetie,” I told her, squeezing her tight. “I’m not sad. I’m just looking at how rich I am.”

I still have that quarter on my nightstand. I haven’t put it in the blue jar, and I don’t think I ever will.

It just sits there in the dust, a little piece of silver that means more than any gold ever could. I still wake up at five, and the house is still too quiet, but now when I look at the wood, I don’t just see what is missing. I see what he left behind.