When I was 15, my mom announced at the breakfast table that I had a job interview that morning.
She said there was no getting out of it because it was all arranged. Dad would drive me to the new bakery that her friend’s son was about to open in our hometown in northern England.
Two hours later, I sat opposite the manager as she read aloud parts of the application my mom had forged without my knowledge.
“You wrote that math is one of your best subjects,” the woman said, noting that the position was for a part-time counter person at the bakery.
I was abysmal at math. Sure enough, when the manager asked me to solve a simple equation to test my mental arithmetic, I got the answer spectacularly wrong.
Next, the woman showed me the personal note my mom had mailed with my application, addressed to the business owner and introducing herself …