It’s a fact. I love being at home, and I intend to spend the rest of the summer here. Home is where I find rest from all the hullabaloos of city life. Well, supposedly. What I hate about being at home is the notion that when I arrive, it’s like I’m carrying a hefty sack of money. Or I’m like a banker or something, ready to just dispense some dough. Honestly, I don’t keep cash in my wallet. So every time any of my grandma would ask for some amount, I would always say, “No, I don’t have money.”
Call me stingy, but the fact is, I just don’t give away my hard-earned savings easily. Not even to my family. Not that they don’t pay or won’t pay, but I just think that I don’t have enough money to lend them. Besides, I just realize how difficult it is to earn my keeps, so to speak. So whatever I have is mine alone. For the time being. My family will want for nothing, I’m pretty sure of it. They won’t go starving.
It just pisses me off when they think I’m a selfish, tight-fisted brat. Whenever they let me feel that way, I just go to the shore and stroll along, carrying my book then wait until the Angelus ends.
I hope they will understand. Or else, I leave.