Sorry for a millionaire from 1.7 deleted, maybe can reuse

For most of us, the telling of the woe of being a millionaire has a three-wish genie with a disheveled turban and a bad hair day feel. Wonk had seen this in person; “if no one will pity me, I guess I’d better get to it,” in his solo visit to a focus group for people with absentee fathers. Wonk’s dad wasn’t absentee exactly, he was physically present, executive functions were fine, he just didn’t respond to much of anything while sitting in the dark.

No answers, no intelligent statements, Wonk felt the minutes passing by, didn’t want to be rude by leaving, or even obnoxious by diving into his smartphone and synching with his AI. During sharing time, one lady, muck boots, fur lined black coat, wearing it all inside, building heat on, shared a quotation from the source of all knowledge, the Internet, “I try to live my life like my father lives his. He always takes care of everyone else first. He won't even start eating until he's sure everyone else in the family has started eating. Another thing: My dad never judges me by whether I win or lose.” Very nice, Wonk thought, but not a real good tie to a “dad that was never there,” support group.”

As Snagglepus would say, “Exit, stage left.” ALWAYS plan your exit. As he was leaving, a lady joined him on his left side.. “Interesting, in several cases their fathers are deceased and left considerable sums of money.” Guess “you can’t buy happiness,” is true. They are lost, looking for something. She stopped, if it was up to me I would love to try to help them with that problem, Wonk kept walking, pondering. Looking for that exit and I hope he finds it.

The lady might have been the most overtly opportunistic person he had met all year, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. There was a business innovation opportunity, a concierge service designed to help the well-to-do enjoy their lives and part with a bit of that nestegg.