The receipts in my dad’s drawer

My dad asked me to help clear out his desk last month. He was moving to a smaller flat and, according to him, everything in the bottom drawer could go.

There were old cables, instruction books for things he no longer owned and a bundle of faded receipts held together with an elastic band.

I was about to put them in the recycling when I recognised the name of a café near our old house.

When I was a teenager, we used to have breakfast there on Sundays. I’d complain about getting up early. He’d read the paper. We weren’t a family that talked much about feelings.

The receipts were from those breakfasts. Two teas, two sandwiches, sometimes an extra pastry. On the back of one he’d written, “Passed driving test.” On another, “First week at university.”

I asked him why he’d kept them.

He shrugged and said he’d forgotten they were there.

Then he took the bundle out of my hand and put it in the box marked KEEP.

I didn’t push him to explain. We went for lunch afterwards and talked about his new flat.

I used to think those Sunday mornings mattered more to him as a routine than as time with me. Finding that bundle made me reconsider that.

We’re going back to the café this weekend. It’s still open. This time I’m paying.