Dad worked long shifts. He kept food in the fridge. He signed my school forms on time.
But he never seemed to care how my day had been.
“Can I get new shoes? These let water in,” I asked him once, holding up a sneaker with the sole peeling off.
“Put on another pair of socks,” he said, not looking up from the table.
I had a father. I just never felt like I had a dad.
On my eighteenth birthday, he slid a scrap of paper across the kitchen table.
On it was written a number.
“Pay me two hundred fifty dollars for your room,” he said. “On the first of every month.”
“You’re charging your own son rent?” I was stunned.
“You’re an adult now.”
I waited for him to laugh. To say he was kidding.
He didn’t.
Dad genuinely expected that $250 on the first of every month, and he got it.
