Instead, he switched off the light and went to bed.
On my eighteenth birthday, Dad pushed a scrap of paper across the breakfast table.
“Pay me $250 for your room. On the first of every month.”
I stared in disbelief.
“You’re an adult now.”
“You’re charging your own son rent?”
“It’s my birthday, Dad.”
“Then consider this your first lesson in responsibility.”
I waited for a smile, but he simply resumed drinking coffee.
I already worked part-time, yet I had to take more shifts stocking grocery shelves. After rent, food, gas, and other expenses, almost nothing remained.
Whenever I saved a little, another expense appeared. My car broke down, my hours were reduced, or my work shoes wore out.
Meanwhile, Dad occasionally bought beer or new fishing equipment.
“Must be nice having money for hobbies,” I muttered one day.
He overheard me.
“Work hard enough, and you will too.”
