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
The price sticker said ninety-nine cents.
Dad glanced at it.
“At least you got a deal.”
It was the closest he came to a joke that morning, and he did not smile.
I put the cupcake down.
“What happened to me being your son?”
He turned his wedding ring around his finger.
The movement was small, almost absentminded, but he kept doing it while he studied the scrap of paper.
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