The reason why my husband is mature

t rained all day. At the entrance of the G train on Nassau Avenue in Brooklyn, a man stood without an umbrella, looking around. Through thick magnifying glasses, he stared hard at people coming out of the subway, as if searching for someone.

“Hi,” I greeted him.

He didn’t even look at me. From the serious look on his face, it seemed like he was trying to catch someone who had run off with his money.

His name was Frank, and he was a loan shark. We first met him in 1987, when we were trying to get a loan to start our life. The interest rate was 10%—not bad for a private loan. We paid him back steadily for five years, and then he said he’d be willing to lend to us anytime.

Frank owned several buildings and had lots of cash, but he was single. He was very hard to reach. He used a phone that could only receive calls, not make them—he wanted to save money. If we wanted to meet him, we had to go to his house early in the morning.

Frank always wore the same vest and suit. You could call it a “suit,” but it looked like he’d worn it for decades. It was worn out and smelled terrible. On rainy days, the smell was so strong it was hard to breathe. His greasy old suit was so stiff that even the rain wouldn’t soak through—it just rolled off.

His chest looked puffed up, almost like he was wearing a bulletproof vest. But it was just full of small notebooks stuffed in his vest and suit pockets. These notebooks, tied tightly with rubber bands, were where he kept records of loans. It took time just to untie the bands. While he searched for our records, we had to stand there in the stench and wait. But if you wanted a loan, that was the price you paid.

Once he opened the notebook, his serious face would turn into a happy smile. He seemed to enjoy watching his money grow through interest. He loved counting money, but he didn’t seem to enjoy spending it at all.

In his younger days, Frank had worked at a local movie theater, collecting tickets. He saved every penny, then started lending money privately. That’s how he built his wealth. He never got married because he was afraid of losing his hard-earned money. He lived alone his whole life, with no close friends or family.

Then one day, our checks stopped going through. About six months later, we got a letter from his lawyer. We were told to make future checks out to “The Estate of Frank Birosik.” Frank had passed away.

His fortune went to a distant niece in Philadelphia, someone he barely knew. How could he close his eyes and leave all that money behind, without ever even buying himself one new suit?