The morning I turned 16 my father took me directly to the DMV to apply for my learner’s permit. He had been teaching me to drive since I was small, holding me on his lap to steer the car from the corner into our driveway. He loved driving, it seemed he could hardly wait to share the fun with me, his oldest child. That same birthday, he marched me straight to the neighborhood supermarket to apply for the job he had already arranged for me as a part-time cashier. It seemed he hated working and wanted me to have the same awful experience.
We had the same conversation for years as I watched him shave before going to work, one leg up on the toilet:
Dad: “I wish I didn’t have to go to work.”
Me: “Why don’t you call in sick?”
Dad: “No one would answer!”
He was the…
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