The old man sat at the kitchen table, staring at the small notebook where he used to record every deposit — every dollar earned, every sacrifice made. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but the memories were sharp.
Across from him, his wife folded laundry in silence. The radio played softly, a song from their youth, but neither of them sang along.
They had worked their whole lives for their children — saving every cent, skipping vacations, skipping medicine, skipping comfort. Every dollar was a promise: “This is for their future.”
When the children grew successful, they offered to “help manage things.” “It’ll be easier if we handle your finances,” their eldest said. “It’s safer,” the youngest added. And so, the parents agreed. They transferred everything — the savings, the pension, the trust. Love, they thought, was the safest investment.
Months passed. Bills arrived. The account balance dropped. Then one day, it hit zero.
The father went to the bank, trembling as he handed over his card. The teller looked at the screen, then at him. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing left.”
He nodded slowly. “Nothing left,” he repeated, as if testing the words.
When he came home, his wife was sitting by the window, holding the same notebook. She looked up. “Did they fix it?” He shook his head. “No. It’s gone.”
She smiled faintly. “Then we gave them everything.”
He sat beside her, took her hand, and whispered, “I thought love had interest.”
She turned her gaze to the fading sunlight. “It does,” she said softly. “But only when it’s returned.”
That night, he opened the notebook again. On the last page, he wrote a single line: “Love withdrawn. Balance: zero.”
He closed the book, placed it beside the framed photo of their children, and turned off the light.
Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, the kitchen clock ticked — steady, indifferent, counting the seconds of a love that had been spent too freely.
