I can still picture him clearly. Every morning, no matter the weather, Patrick rode his old bicycle down the street before dawn. Snow, rain, freezing air—it never stopped him. He wore layers that didn’t quite match the season and carried a worn canvas bag filled with newspapers. He was in his seventies, steady but slow, and yes, he was still delivering papers. And I was embarrassed. Not because the work itself was wrong.
It wasn’t, But because of what I thought it meant. I had built a comfortable life in corporate finance, while my stepfather was out before sunrise tossing newspapers onto lawns. When people asked about my family, I avoided details. I told myself his route was proof I hadn’t done enough. Patrick never argued. He would smile and say the morning air kept him sharp. But I noticed the stiffness in his movements, the pain he tried to hide. I offered to help financially. I bought him an expensive electric bike.
