Mom died when I was nine. Dad worked long shifts, made sure there was food in the fridge, and signed my school forms. But when it came to the little things that mattered to me, he rarely seemed to care.
“Can I get new shoes? These let water in,” I once asked him.
“Put on another pair of socks,” he replied.
For illustrative purposes only
I had a father, but I never really felt like I had a dad.
On my eighteenth birthday, he pushed a scrap of paper across the kitchen table.
“Your room costs $250 a month. Payment is due on the first.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re charging your own son rent?”
“You’re an adult now.”
I waited for him to crack a smile or admit he was joking.
He never did.
From that day forward, I paid him $250 every month. I stocked shelves after school, helped cover groceries, and tried to save whatever I could so I could eventually move out.
