Emily insisted I “call ahead.”

They were embarrassed by my old car, my worn coat, my hands—hands that built everything they enjoyed.

At gatherings, they introduced me like I was irrelevant.

“The guy who got lucky.”

That always made me smile.

Because I didn’t get lucky.

I built the world they were pretending to understand.

That night, everything collapsed over something small.

I gave Daniel a restored antique watch—something his grandfather once dreamed of owning.

He barely looked at it.

Tossed it aside.

Then, in front of everyone, he said he was tired of me showing up expecting gratitude in a house that had nothing to do with me.

So I told him calmly:

“Don’t forget who built the ground you’re standing on.”

That was enough.

He stood up.

Shoved me.

Then started hitting me.

And I counted.