My father had not made me something.

He had given me a door and then, wisely, gotten out of the way, and everything of value on the other side of that door I had made myself, in the dark, under a name that carried no weight at all.

“My father gave me one thing,” I said.

“A chance to start at the bottom without my name attached.

Everything after that I earned.

Three years cleaning rooms on the overnight shift.