Riddles We Answer Anyway

Tom found the sphinx in his father's garage—a museum replica Dad had bought during his pyramid phase, before the dementia really took hold. Its painted eyes followed Tom as he packed boxes, each one a different stage of a life ending.

"You taking that?" his sister Karen asked from the doorway. She held Winston's leash. The old golden retriever had belonged to their parents; now he shuffled between Tom's place and hers, a shared custody animal for parents who couldn't agree on who'd inherit the dog.

"I guess." Tom lifted the sphinx. "Dad loved it."

"He loved the riddle." Karen's voice cracked. "You remember? He'd make us guess every time we visited."

"What walks on four legs in the morning—"

"—two at noon, three in the evening." Tom finished automatically. "Man. Crawling, walking, leaning on a cane." He set the sphinx in his car. "Never made sense. Why would anyone crawl as an adult?"

"Infancy, Tom. Babies crawl."

"Oh. Right." He felt stupid. Always had.

That evening, he met Daniel at the padel courts. They played weekly, a routine that had survived Tom's divorce, his father's decline, the endless attrition of his late thirties. Daniel's backhand was brutal tonight.

"Rough week?" Daniel asked between games.

"Dad's moving to memory care Friday. Karen and I had to decide today."

"Shit. I'm sorry."

They sat on the bench, Daniel drinking water, Tom staring at his shoes. "He keeps asking where Mom is. She's been gone five years."

"That's the hard part. The forgetting."

"The remembering's worse sometimes." Tom's voice dropped. "He apologizes for her spinach casserole every time I visit. Like she's still alive, like he's still protecting me from having to eat it."

Daniel nodded slowly. "My dad made me play padel with him every Sunday until I was sixteen. Hated it. Now I can't stop playing."

"Grief conditioning."

"Something like that." Daniel stood. "One more game?"

Tom looked at the sphinx through his car window, its riddle mouth fixed in an eternal smile. What walks on four legs, then two, then three? He thought of his father's progression—his strong hands building Tom's crib, carrying him on shoulders, the trembling hands now that couldn't hold a pen.

"Daniel?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the fourth stage?" Tom asked. "After the cane?"

"What?"

"The riddle. What's next?" Tom felt suddenly wild with it. "Four legs, two legs, three legs. What comes after three?"

Daniel considered. "Wheelchair?"

"Hospice bed."

"Tom—"

"No, seriously." Tom stepped onto the court, racket ready. "We answer these riddles like there's wisdom in them. But what if the answer's just that everything ends?"

"I don't know." Daniel served. "You still have to play the point."

Tom swung, the ball arcing toward the wall. Winston was waiting at home, and Karen would call tomorrow, and Friday would come whether he was ready or not. Some riddles didn't have answers. You just kept hitting the ball back.