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How Much Do You Make An Hour, Daddy?
A poor dad comes home tired late at night.
His little five-year old runs up and hug him tight.
“Daddy, how much do you make an hour?” the little boy said.
The angry, frustrated dad ordered him to bed.
“Why would you ask me that?” the dad said real loud.
He didn’t make much, he wasn’t really proud.
“I make $14 an hour, if you really must know.”
The daddy turned away, his head hanging low.
“Can I please borrow $7 then,” the little boy pleaded.
The dad got real angry, and asked him what he needed.
“If it’s some silly toy, then you can forget that.
You don’t need another toy car, or another baseball bat.
You know we can’t afford it; we’re just way too poor.
Now go on straight to bed, and don’t ask me anymore.
I work way too hard for your childish pleads.
We need the money for more essential needs.”
After an hour or so, when the dad had calmed down,
Maybe he was too harsh, so to turn it all around,
He went to the room and knocked on the door.
He walked right now and saw his son sleeping on the floor.
“Are you sleeping yet, my son?” he asked, though he knew.
“No, daddy, not yet. I was waiting for you.”
“Here’s $7, I hope you spend it well,” the dad said.
“Thank you, daddy,” the boy said, and reached underneath his head.
Underneath the pillow, he pulled out money he had saved.
Angrily, the dad shouted, “The money I just gave.
Why did you need it when you already had your own?”
The boy counted his money, and replied with a happy tone.
“Because I didn’t have enough, but now I do, dad.
Here’s $14, please don’t get mad.”
He handed the money to the dad and started to say,
“Now that I’ve bought an hour, can you come home early the next day?
I want to have dinner with you like we use to do.
I hope you’ll want to eat with me too.”
His dad was crushed and held on to his son.
And cried for forgiveness as he held his little one.