PART 1

Mom died when I was nine.

Dad worked long shifts, kept food in the fridge, and signed my school forms.

But he never seemed to care how my day had been.

“Can I get new shoes?

These let water in,” I remember asking him once.

“Put on another pair of socks,” he said.

I had a father, but he never made much effort to be a dad.

On my eighteenth birthday, he slid a scrap of paper across the kitchen table.

“Pay me $250 for your room.

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.

But Dad really did expect that $250 every month.

I stocked shelves, helped pay for groceries, and tried to save enough to move out.

Then my car would need repairs, or my hours would get cut.

Another month, another $250.