Mother slid me a five pound note, uncreased, flat on the table. I didn’t move. Except my eyes. I moved those. In my head, to look at the note, and then to her, and then back at my book.

“Take it.”

I continued to read. I was learning about the Aztecs.

“Take it.”

I slid my eyeballs around in their sockets and pointed them toward her again. And then I gave in and put my book down, and rotated my body and planted my feet on the hardwood floor, and met with her properly.

“No thank you,” I said, taking the note. Quetzalocoatl would have been ashamed.