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

“First invoice,” I said.

He opened it and read every line.

I had recorded a local musician’s demo that afternoon, a three-hour session with two vocal takes and a guitar track that needed another pass.

The amount was modest, but I had listed the hours, the work completed, and the balance due.

Marcus turned the paper over.

“Where are your payment terms?”

“I told him he could pay me Friday.”

“What happens if Friday becomes Monday?”