Every morning, no matter the weather, Patrick—my seventy-year-old stepfather—rode his battered bicycle through the neighborhood delivering newspapers. Wrapped in layers, hauling a canvas bag, he looked like a relic from another era. And quietly, I was ashamed. I worked in corporate finance and avoided explaining what he did, fearing his paper route reflected a failure I hadn’t fixed.
Patrick never complained. He said the early rides “kept the rust off,” even as I noticed his stiff knee and hidden strain. I tried to convince him to stop—offered money, hobbies, even bought him an electric bike he never used. He always answered the same way: “The route’s my responsibility.”
Six months ago, he collapsed mid-delivery on Maple Street, clutching a bundle of Sunday papers. The heart attack was sudden. His funeral was small and quiet, until a man in a crisp suit introduced himself as Patrick’s manager from the local paper—and then dropped a shock: Patrick had never truly worked there.
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