After I was laid off, I spent all day hunched over my computer, writing to earn a meager living.
My wife linked arms with her lover and sneered, “You’ve been writing for two years and only make thirty-five cents a day. You’d be better off picking up trash!”
My daughter quietly slipped the New Year’s money she’d saved into my pocket. “Dad, don’t starve to death.”
Over the next five years, I wrote a sensation, sold the rights, and made five billion through wildly successful investments.
But my ex-wife was beaten by her abusive husband and ended up in the hospital. With her leg in a cast, she begged me to take her back.
I swirled my red wine and smiled. “Remember what you said?”
“My novels were only good for wiping the soles of your high heels.”
