Blessed are the young,
for they shall inherit the National Debt.

HERBERT HOOVER

My father’s addiction to ice cream started when he quit smoking cigarettes almost fifty years ago. It added years to his life, he claims, but has been just about as expensive. (I once joked with Dad that he should have kept all the money he saved by not smoking and drinking—we could have taken it to a casino and tried to win some more. I mentioned this once while speaking and received a very short letter WRITTEN IN ALL CAPS with lots of exclamation points. Sadly, the person forgot to sign it, so I couldn’t tell him I was kidding.)

If you invited Dad to dinner and asked if he’d like a little ice cream, he would shake his head. “No,” he’d say. “I’d like a lot of ice cream.” And so we are meeting at an ice cream shop this windy autumn afternoon. It’s the ideal spot to speak of something that’s been on my mind for a while.

Dad and Mom pull up in their hunter green Ford Tempo. Ramona and I watch as they labor to untangle themselves from the cramped front seat. They aren’t as spry as they were ten years ago—or six months ago, for that matter.

My father orders a large vanilla cone roofed in chocolate and feigns reluctance as I pull out my wallet. Moms tastes are much simpler: hot water with milk and honey, something I’ve seen her drink a hundred times but never had the nerve to try myself. They are holding hands as she takes dainty sips from the cup, her smile almost concealing the worry wrinkles tugging at her brow.

Conversation comes easily. The fall colors are particularly vibrant this year, says Dad. It reminds them both of their hometown. The laughter comes too. Something a grandchild said. Dad has always loved making us laugh, so he puts his nose in the ice cream like a little kid.

Finally there is a lull in the conversation, and I clear my throat, wondering how they’ll take to our idea. “Would you like to be in on our little building project?” I ask.

Dad wipes the ice cream from his nose. “What are you building?”

“A house. We plan to start in the spring. We’d like to include a small suite in it for you.”

Their eyes grow wide. Dad squeezes Mom’s hand. Bright smiles, long on vacation, quickly return. I haven’t seen them this excited since they last had their corns removed.

Mom asks Ramona, “What do you think?”

She smiles. “It was my idea,” she says.

“We’ll only need one bedroom,” Dad promises, his eyes dancing.

“I’ll have to see a marriage license before you move in,” I tell him.

We all lean forward as I pull out some drawings. The suite will be small but comfortable. Outside the bedroom is a bathroom and laundry. The kitchen is adequate, the dining room is small, and the living room is large enough for some furniture, a fireplace, and a sofa bed. “You can use it for company,” I suggest.

“Or arguments,” says Mom.

The two are arm in arm now. Uncomfortable with the tears running down their cheeks, I try to joke. “We’re putting big padlocks on all the doors and extra soundproofing in the walls,” I say. “Go ahead and argue.”

“Can we play loud music?” asks Dad.

“You can take up the bagpipes if you like.”

A few people thought we had lost our minds, but our friends were unanimously supportive. Their responses ranged from envy to incredulity. “My parents wouldn’t live with us if a tornado leveled their place,” joked one. “Maybe during the millennial kingdom when the lion lies down with the lamb.”

I was telling another friend that my parents would be living thirty feet from us, and he looked at me like I’d just ordered him off a cliff. “I took my parents to the airport this morning,” he said. “Their flight leaves tomorrow.”

Others asked how it would work. We didn’t know.

One said, “I hope we can do the same one day. Congratulations!”

I told him, “Don’t congratulate me. I have a doctorate in selfishness, but every once in a while I experience a momentary lapse.”

Eleven months later the house was complete, and we set about making it a home. It took a three-hour yard sale one Saturday to sell the stuff my parents had spent a lifetime gathering. “Junk,” Dad insisted, but I could tell he had trouble letting some of it go.

Those were golden times. Every week or two we joined them on their patio, sipping iced tea and gazing west across fields finally unlocked from the frosts of winter. In the distance, mountain peaks poked above the horizon. A row of gnarled pines cast long shadows where Mom helped us plant a garden and Dad helped us paint a fence. They assisted with our fledgling book business, with proofreading and mailing, offering topical advice, busy with things they loved.

And every night without fail, Jeff would tap on their door and go in for a good-night hug. Rachael loved reading to them. Steve opted to watch hockey with his grandpa on Saturday nights. I snapped pictures of the two of them eating ice cream and pizza—usually in that order. Sometimes Ramona and I would eavesdrop, but mostly we’d slip out, leaving the five of them together. We talked of never returning, and wondered if they’d really miss us at all.

We had no idea what lay ahead, so we did the only thing we knew to do: took that next step, believing it to be the right one.