My dad took me to his office every day. My earliest memory is of playing with old wooden blocks while he yelled at somebody over the phone that they were making the mistake of their life.

It was a very progressive workplace, and they were happy to accommodate a single dad. Though part of it is probably that he was their star performer. He called himself a deal whisperer. Every life event of mine — talking, walking, reading — seemed to accompany a promotion of his.

He made us sandwiches every day, cut into rectangles, squished in short Tupperware. One day I saw triangular sandwiches on TV and asked him to make them for me. He looked offended. “When you grow up, you can make sandwiches however you want.”

When I turned thirteen, we went fishing. We sat on a thin boat he rented. He played the Eagles out of a noisy radio. He explained to me that the sound bounced off the water, the fish wouldn’t notice.

A few hours in, he told me I was becoming a man now, and I needed to start paying attention to what he was doing, for when I took over. I didn’t understand, by then I was only coming by for two hours after school. He looked surprised. “Is that where you go during the day?” He swore and looked off into the distance. “I wish you had told me sooner. Let’s get you out of there.”

I left school, and hung out in his office full-time. I was excited and scared to succeed him as a salesman. The trouble was, he didn’t teach me anything. I asked him to explain what he was doing, and he glowered at me. Then he’d go back to telling whichever government representative it was this month that only this deal could please his taxpayers.

I tried to listen in, but couldn’t understand it without context. Eventually I just read stuff on my phone. Economics. Ikea manual PDFs. Minecraft walkthroughs. The secretaries would visit me until my dad shooed them away.

“Men know what they want,” he’d say afterwards. “That is our greatest blessing and our greatest curse.”

I didn’t really know what he was talking about. I would go back on my phone. I got really good at puzzle games.

He passed away in the middle of the night when I was 17. It felt early, but the nurses later told me that he was 80, and that he had the mother of all heart attacks. I had no idea he was so old. When I went home, I slept for a long time, and then I got his papers in order. He had left me an extraordinary sum, but because I wasn’t 18 yet, I couldn’t claim it.

I knew what I had to do. I went to his boss. He was, I realized, probably younger than my dad. But he felt older. Not as big. He listened intently while I explained that I had learned a lot from my dad, and I was ready to make some deals. When I finished, he took my hand in his and patted it. “Son,” he said, “I know you have the experience, but without the education, I’m afraid I can’t give you his old position. I’d like to, but I just can’t. However, we have an entry-level position. It’s how your father started.”

I felt somewhat embarrassed. I knew my dad would cuss him out, then explain why it was in everybody’s reasonable interest to give me the better job. But I didn’t do that, because I knew it was all true. I wasn’t ready. And part of me liked the idea of starting from the bottom.

I’ve received two promotions since then. I try to break people over the phone, and they ask me to speak up. But later they call to chat and end up capitulating to everything. I’m 18 now, and could just live off of my dad’s savings. But I like going in to work. My secretary and I have crushes on each other. I’m not sure how to talk to her. I think I’m going to use a bit of my dad’s money and take her on a trip to Paris.

Sometimes at night I cry. I’ve heard of other men trying not to cry. But not my dad. And if he never said anything against it, it must be fine.