The House With Receipts
I learned math before love. Not the kind that buys bread—the kind that turns kindness into a line item. A lullaby that balances books.
“We gave you 30 years” → Translation: you owe us your life.
Rice & Interest
She crowned me with a dome of rice and a sermon about cost. The heat left the plate like interest leaving the poor.
“Your problem is attitude.” / “Mine is accounting.”
Oxygen, Priced
Uber wasn’t a ride; it was a breath. She waved screenshots like CT scans of my character. Half of those trips were cancelled—like her version of motherhood.
“Why all these?” → “Because not suffocating is cheaper than dying.”
Group-Chat Liturgy
THEM: After all we did— ME: After all you did, you still need receipts. That’s not love; that’s accounting.
Delivered. Read. No reply. A tire photo arrives. Distraction is the cheapest currency.
Broker & Rice
Emails in one hand, ladle in the other. “We can’t disclose without Sabir.” At home she said we, to vendors she said me, to God she said look at sacrifice. Everybody kept notes. Only one forgave.
Cardboard Cage
The bars weren’t iron. They were cardboard painted holy, labeled For Your Own Good. They bent the first time I stopped clapping.
CAGE IS CARDBOARD
Banters With God
“God did,” I told the ceiling fan. The only presence in the room that didn’t invoice me for existing.
Three-Line Policy
1) My survival isn’t a transaction. 2) If it’s love, lose the receipts. 3) I’m not payable. I’m human.
Exhibit A: UPS Blessing
An old woman said, “May God give you whatever you need today.” No invoice. No ledger. A rope thrown to a drowning man.
Pool Table Sermon
A pool table naps in the living room while arguments rehearse. You can sink balls forever and still owe everyone everything when love is leverage.
Room Over the Shop
A caring face offered me a room above the store. I asked for keys, quiet hours, and an exit clause. The weather changed inside her eyes.
Love that needs a spare key isn’t love. It’s property management.
Hotel Behind My Own Store
I checked into a room behind a sign with my name on it. Keycard mercy; keys out of reach. Dallas laughs in neon.
Surge Blessing
No car. Surge high. I called it a curse till I realized it kept me from buying another cardboard night. God’s favorite disguise is “not tonight.”
Embassy Vacation
They called it a vacation to Houston. The escalator called it processing. “Do you have all our passports?”—the inventory creep of love-as-ledger.
Mother Tongue
Grandmother. Masters in Economics. Hard worker. All crowns, all weapons, depending on the day. In our house, hugs had price floors.
Audit of Apologies
I apologized for breath, for silence, for the price of oxygen. Then I stopped. The room ran out of script.
Neon Purgatory
After midnight, Dallas sells absolution by the song. The jukebox apologized for things it didn’t do. So did I. For years.
FAA Day
They took my watch and handed me a booklet. I walked out with a bruise disguised as a number. Home asked for receipts before it asked if I could breathe.
How to Love Me (No Ledger)
Ask what hurts, not what costs. Sit without witnesses. If you help, let it die there. Bless and go.
Closing Account
They’ll call it ingratitude. That’s the oldest interest charge on earth. I’m not defaulting; I’m declining the loan.
Father’s Arithmetic
He didn’t weaponize words; he weaponized silence. If I brought pain, he brought “think about it.” That’s torture disguised as homework.
Committee of Sisters
Minutes taken at the sink. Verdicts delivered with plates. Motion carried: “Smile more.” I retired from the board.
Tire Photo Doctrine
Truth lands → tire photo appears → conversation deflates. Logistics are the getaway car for accountability.
Keys vs Keycard
A key opens what’s yours. A keycard opens what you’ve rented from someone else’s mercy. I’m tired of renting breath.
Room Offer · Terms or Nothing
Keys, quiet hours, exit clause. If care can’t survive paper, it was control.
Blessing vs Brand
Blessing: five words that fed me. Brand: five decades that billed me. One is mercy. The other is marketing.
Rice: The Subscription
Includes monthly guilt bundle and a surprise surcharge labeled “remember.” Cancellation policy: don’t.
Spare Key Test
If home requires a spare key “just in case,” it isn’t home. It’s custody with curtains.
Surge Mercy (Reprise)
Sometimes God’s mercy looks like a locked door and a dead battery. Not tonight saved my life more than once.
UPS Gospel
“May God give you whatever you need today.” She paid my soul in full. No receipts. No follow-up survey.