On Sunday, a guy came by the apartment to pick up hundreds of Dad’s records. Dad had advertised a large chunk of his collection on an audiophile website. “I can’t move them all to the new place,” he said. “I don’t have room.” He let me keep my favorites, and he kept all of his favorites, too.

The buyer was rake-thin, in his fifties. “I’m Cecil,” he said. He wore a purple tie-dyed shirt and his long hair was pulled back with a scrunchie.

Dad and I helped him load the boxes of records into his Toyota Corolla. When we’d loaded the last box, Cecil handed Dad a check. “Did I spell the name right?”

“You did. Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” said Cecil. “This is a wonderful addition to my collection.” He drove away.

Dad handed the check to me. “This is for you.” I looked at it. It was made out to Petula De Wilde.

And it was for over three thousand dollars.

That’s right: over three thousand dollars.

There were a million ways my parents could use this money. “Dad, I can’t—”

He cut me off. “We’ll put most of it in your education fund and deposit the rest in your bank account for a rainy day.”

I didn’t know what to say. Was it guilt money?

Who was I to say no to guilt money?

So I just said, “Thanks.”