My Dad Started Charging Me $250 a Month for My Room When I Turned 18 — Five Years Later, After His Funeral, His Best Friend Handed Me a Box
I took out my checkbook.
My hand paused over the amount, not because I had forgotten the number, but because I knew exactly what the payment would leave me.
Six hundred and forty dollars.
I wrote the check and passed it across the desk.
Walter examined it, entered the payment in his ledger, and printed a receipt.
He checked the date before handing it to me.
November twelfth.
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