My father printed a contract from his office. The interest rate was 5%. My mother insisted that it be notarized.
“It’s important to be formal,” she explained. “It builds character.”
For six months, I ate canned food and walked for miles to save on gas. I paid them back in advance, sincerely believing that this sense of responsibility would earn them their respect.
No. It simply established how far I had to go without complaining.
Now, sitting in my apartment, my leg elevated by mismatched cushions, this pattern has finally crystallized into perfect clarity.
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