Stung

I was doing OK today, trudging diligently through the onerous task of combing over my father's credit card statements to identify recurring charges so that I could move, cancel, or otherwise rearrange items that my mother will still use (the Netflix subscription, the cell phone auto-pay) to appropriate places as I tidy up things. I was fine, despite some expected frustrations and complexities, right up until the moment that it came time to cancel his New York Times subscription.  

There was no point to keeping it -- Mom has her own, and so do I. And so, I logged in and clicked through to begin the cancellation process. (It is always easier online than having to talk to a person, especially when the reason for canceling is, because someone is deceased.) The system politely offered my some options instead of full cancellation: did I want to put it on hiatus? Did I want a print copy instead? No, thanks. 

Then it asked: did I want a year's worth of access to just the games, for free? And it showed the little game icons, including the Spelling Bee. And my heart clutched a little bit, because Daddy loved the Spelling Bee, and played it every day.

Thank you, but no, New York Times. He can't play any more.

It let me cancel without further ado. And I put my head on my desk and cried, just a little, for that bee.