The Paper Route I Misjudged, and the Secret My Stepfather Carried!

I made several attempts to intervene. I offered to take over his mortgage, bought him a top-of-the-line electric bike he never used, and suggested “dignified” hobbies like golf or woodworking. Every time, he would pat my hand with a calloused palm and offer the same infuriatingly calm refusal. “The route is my responsibility, David,” he would say. “Besides, the morning air keeps the mind sharp and the body young.” I would just nod, retreating into my silent judgment, convinced that he was simply a stubborn man clinging to a meager sense of purpose because he had nothing else.

That narrative of pity came to a crashing halt on a Tuesday morning in late November. Patrick collapsed on a sidewalk three blocks from the house, his canvas bag still half-full of the morning edition. He was gone before the ambulance arrived. The funeral was a somber, understated affair, attended by a few neighbors and a handful of distant relatives. I stood by the grave feeling a hollow sense of guilt, mourning a man I thought I had understood, but whom I had mostly just tolerated.

As the last of the mourners drifted away, a man in a crisp, charcoal suit approached me. He had the sharp, observant eyes of a hawk and a handshake that felt like iron. He introduced himself as Marcus, Patrick’s “manager” from the local newspaper.

“He was one of our most reliable,” Marcus said, his voice carrying a strange, formal weight.

“I know,” I replied, looking at the fresh earth. “I tried to get him to retire for years. I didn’t want him to have to work so hard for so little.”

Marcus paused, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “David, your stepfather never actually worked for the newspaper. We just used their distribution center as a staging area.”

The confusion must have been plain on my face. The following morning, Marcus directed me to an office building on the outskirts of the city. It was an unremarkable structure of brick and glass, but it was guarded with a level of security that felt more appropriate for a mint than a local business. Inside, I was met by a woman named Catherine, who sat me down in a room devoid of windows but filled with monitors.