Ezoic
I said it at the dinner table. Between the turkey and the pie.
My father put down his fork.
“You quit IBM,” he said. “A real job. With benefits. A pension. To start a company. With a girl from your dorm.”
“Dad—”
“You’ll be back in a year,” he said. “Begging for your job. Don’t come to me for money.”
Ezoic
Melissa laughed.
She was twenty-two. Fresh out of Clemson. She’d just gotten engaged to Ben. My parents had paid for her entire wedding. Forty thousand dollars. At a plantation outside Charleston.
“Morgan’s always got some big idea,” she said. “Remember when she wanted to be an astronaut?”
Everyone laughed.
I didn’t go back to IBM.
I didn’t come to my father for money.
Not once. Not in twelve years. Not when we were eating ramen. Not when I couldn’t make rent. Not when our first major client went bankrupt in 2014 and we almost lost everything.
