I took this to mean, No, boys, you don’t deserve that, or, No, boys, you don’t really need that.
It wasn’t until Bryce called our home a complete dive that I started really seeing things.
It wasn’t just the yard. It was my dad’s truck, my mother’s car, the family bike that was more rust than steel,
and the fact that when we did buy something new, it always seemed to come from a second-time-around store.
Plus, we never went on vacation. Ever. Why was that?
My father was the hardest-working man in the world, and my mother worked for TempService doing secretarial jobs whenever she could.
What was all that hard work about if this is where it got you? Asking my parents whether we were poor seemed incredibly impolite.
But as the days went by, I knew I had to ask. Just had to.
Every day I’d ride home from school on our rusty bike, pull past the broken fence and patchy yard, and think, Tonight.
I’ll ask them tonight. But then I wouldn’t ask them. I just didn’t know how.
Then one day I had an idea. A way to talk to them about it and maybe help out a little, too.
And since my brothers were working at the music store that night, and nobody was saying much of anything at the table,
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