Not that I blame you for it, but here I am, all fixed up better than ever.
Test me. Ask me questions. I speak twenty languages, living and dead;
I'm a mathematical whiz, and I'm writing a piano concerto that will make them remember me long after I'm gone.
How could I tell him? How absurd I was sitting in his shop, waiting for him to pat me on the head and say, "Good boy."
I wanted his approval, the old glow of satisfaction that came to his face when I learned to tie my own shoelaces and button my sweater.
I had come here for that look in his face, but I knew I wouldn't get it.
"You want me to call a doctor?" I wasn't his son. That was another Charlie.
Intelligence and knowledge had changed me, and he would resent me—as the others from the bakery resented me—because my growth diminished him.
I didn't want that. "I'm okay," I said. "Sorry to be a nuisance."
I got up and tested my legs. "Something I ate. I'll let you close up now."
As I headed towards the door, his voice called after me sharply. "Hey, wait a minute!"
His eyes met mine with suspicion. "What are you trying to pull?" "I don't understand."
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