Every Sunday my son Daniel called at two o’clock, and we did the crossword together over the phone. Thirty years. He read the clues out loud and let me have all the easy ones, like I didn’t know what he was doing. He passed in 2019. Forty-six years old. I still buy two copies of the Sunday paper. I can’t explain that to anyone, so I’ve stopped trying.
It started the Sunday after his mother died. Daniel was sixteen. I was forty-four. We sat in the kitchen with the paper between us, and neither one of us could say a word that mattered. So he picked up the crossword and said, “One across. Four letters. ‘A father’s burden.’” I said, “Load.” He said, “Good one, Dad.” And then he read the next clue, and the next. We didn’t cry. We didn’t talk about her. We just filled in the blanks. After that, he went back to school, then to college, then to his own life. But every Sunday at two, the phone rang.
He became an English teacher. I wanted him to take over the hardware store. We fought about it for three months. Then one Sunday, at two o’clock, the phone rang. He didn’t mention the fight. I didn’t either. He just said, “Seven down. ‘A stubborn man.’” I said, “Father.” He laughed so hard he had to put the phone down. That was how we said sorry. That was how we said everything.
He married, divorced, became a father himself. Maggie was born on a Tuesday. That Sunday, he called and said, “Dad, she has your hands.” I pretended I had something in my eye. He let me have all the easy clues that day. He let me have them every day.
I knew what he was doing. Of course I knew. I’d been doing crosswords since I was a boy. But I let him think he was humoring me. It was our little kindness. His way of saying, I’ve got you, old man. My way of saying, I know, son. I know.
When he moved two states away, I still bought two copies of the Sunday paper. One for me, one for him. I told myself it was in case he visited. He visited twice a year. The second paper sat on the counter, untouched, until the next Sunday. Then I bought another. My wife used to say, “You’re going to drown in newsprint.” She was gone by then, so I talked to the paper instead.
In 2019, Daniel got sick. Pancreatic cancer. He didn’t tell me. He told Maggie. She was twenty-two then. He made her promise not to say anything because I’d just had heart surgery. He said he didn’t want our Sundays to be about hospitals. So he kept calling. Every week. His voice got thinner. I asked if he had a cold. He said, “Just tired, Dad. You take the easy ones.”
I took them. I always took them.
He died on a Thursday. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say a lot of things. At the funeral, I sat in the front row and stared at the coffin and thought about all the Sundays I had waited for the phone to ring instead of picking it up myself. Thirty years, and I had never once called him first. I had never once said, I love you, son. I assumed there would be time. There is never time. There is only the next Sunday, until there isn’t.
After he died, I kept buying two papers. People thought I was losing it. Maybe I was. I’d sit at the kitchen table with my coffee and his untouched copy, and I’d fill in the answers on mine, then write the same answers on his, as if he’d be able to see them wherever he was. I couldn’t explain it. So I stopped trying.
Last week, Maggie cleaned out his storage unit. She came to my house with a cardboard box and set it on the kitchen table. “Grandpa,” she said, “you need to see this.”
Inside were his old puzzle books. Dozens of them. His little notes filled every margin. Grocery lists. Silly jokes. Milk. Eggs. Call Dad at 2. Why did the scarecrow win an award? Because he was outstanding in his field. Dad’s knee—ask about the cream. Mom’s anniversary—don’t forget. Dad loves the three-down clues. Let him have them.
Maggie said, “He kept every Sunday paper. All of them. In boxes. He wrote on them. He never threw one away.”
I opened the last book. It was the final puzzle, dated the week he passed. He hadn’t filled in a single answer. Across the whole page, in his careful print, it said:
“Dad,
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was scared. I didn’t want you to spend our Sundays worrying. But I need you to know: those calls were the best part of my life. Not the puzzles. You. I know you knew I gave you the easy ones. I know you let me. That was our whole language, wasn’t it? You never said you were proud of me. But you answered the phone every Sunday at two o’clock. That was enough. That was everything.
I love you. Don’t stop calling people. Don’t stop showing up. And Dad? You were never the easy clue. You were the answer. Finish the puzzle. I left the hard ones for you.”
I read it three times. Then I put my head down on the table and cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a boy. Maggie sat beside me and held my hand. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
When I finally looked up, I asked her, “You got a crossword in front of you?”
She smiled. “Yeah, Grandpa. I do.”
“Good,” I said, pulling out my pen. “I’ll take the hard ones today.”
We did the puzzle together. She read the clues. I let her have a few easy ones. She knew what I was doing. I knew she knew. It was our language now.
The next Sunday, at two o’clock, I didn’t wait for the phone to ring. I picked it up and called Maggie. She answered on the first ring.
“Grandpa?”
“You got the paper?” I asked.
“I got the paper.”
“Good,” I said. “Let’s do the crossword.”
And for the first time in thirty years, I was the one calling. I still buy two copies of the Sunday paper. One for me. One for Maggie. And sometimes, when the light is just right and the house is quiet, I swear I can hear Daniel’s voice reading the clues, letting me have the easy ones, like I don’t know what he’s doing.
I know, son. I know.
I’m finishing the puzzle.
