them because people like him—people who came from his world—they didn’t find money or success. They just chased the idea of it until they settled and maybe found something they could call happiness.
The truth was, he expected to be like his parents. Poor, working even when they should have retired, but ultimately happy with how life had turned out.
But wealth had crept up on him. He didn’t wake up one morning after graduating with a mini-mansion and a sport’s car. He spent his residency eating boxed mac and cheese and tuna. He had months of shut-off notices, and the carpet in his apartment was at least ten years old. He wore his shoes until there were holes in the bottoms, and when his first real paycheck after he had MD at the end of his name hit his bank account, most of it was gone to loan debt and his dad’s medical bills.
But financial freedom became a reality—slowly. He started shopping for name brands. And then he had enough for savings. And then he took over a couple of his parents’ utility bills, and then he had enough for a car. And then, when the percentage his loans were taking didn’t put a dent in bank account, Julian took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake.
“You have enough for a house, Ilan. It’s time to get rid of this apartment and live the life you were meant to live.”
And maybe that’s why his chest ached. Because the last time he’d done this—which was also the first time—he hadn’t been alone. He and Julian had stayed up all night looking at real estate listings and laughing at strange artwork and mismatched flooring. And eventually, Ilan found a little place that felt like it could be his. They toured it, and he put an offer on it, and it was accepted.
And gradually—like a slow drizzle of molasses—his old life faded into something like a memory. His only regret was losing out on time to give more to his parents while they were still around.
He bought his parents a condo and a new car, and they lived in relative ease, but it wasn’t for long. His father died two years after he started working at the hospital, and as he held his mother for the first night she spent alone in fifty-six years, he wondered how much longer he had with her. He wasn’t surprised that she went less than a year later. His father had been her rock, and she was never the sort of person who could—or wanted to—free float.
Her funeral was quieter than his dad’s. Julian held his hand through the whole thing and visited the cemetery with him once a year to lay stones on their graves. And he wondered if this life he was playing at made any real difference to them before they passed. They had always been proud of him, always believed in him. So, did any of it actually matter in the end?
“Cash’ll be fine,” he finally said, remembering that Jack was waiting on an answer. “Whatever will close the fastest.”
“Well, they’re already out,” Jack pointed out, waving his hand at the empty room. “It’ll only take a few days to get the paperwork together if you want to do cash.”
“That’s fine.” And it was. He was staying in a little rental a few miles up the road that was in walking distance from a little hipster bar that made all-natural drinks. He’d dropped in for a Bloody Mary and cringed when he watched the bartender start mashing tomatoes with a pestle. But the heavy amount of vodka had killed all the ick, and though he stumbled on his way back to the house, he managed not to get hit by a car. After the day he was having, he was looking forward to a repeat.
He and Jack parted ways at the front door, and he promised to send the bank draft the moment he got approval. He waited for Jack to drive off, then he slipped into his car and put the top down, starting down the road. It was chilly—tropical winter always deceiving in that way where it was frigid one week and sweltering the next. The breeze off the ocean had a bite to it, but it kept him grounded as he turned the corner and pulled into the little gravel driveway.
One of the neighbors was out and lifted a hand in greeting. He was an old man with