That was the first time I realized the negotiations might become dangerous.
Not because the two-million-dollar investment itself was improper.
But because someone had begun treating my refusal as an obstacle to be removed rather than a commercial position to be respected.
By the following spring, my life had become a complicated arrangement of research, legal expenses, part-time employment, and negotiations.
My academic support covered important costs but didn't make me wealthy.
The patent existed on paper and had genuine potential value.
But potential value wasn't cash in my bank account.
I hadn't received a large licensing payment.
Blue Harbor was still developing products.
And the investment negotiations had not closed.
Meanwhile, I had rent.
Food.
Transportation.
Insurance.
And professional expenses associated with protecting and evaluating the invention.
I also sent money home when I could.
Mom never asked for it.
She worked.
She had her own responsibilities.
And she insisted I shouldn't sacrifice my future to help with ordinary expenses.
But I knew she'd spent much of her life making sacrifices for me.
I wanted to help.
Working at Moonbridge Pavilion allowed me to earn income without abandoning my research.
The restaurant offered evening shifts compatible with my academic schedule.
The pay was better than many other jobs available to students, and the tips could be useful during busy weeks.
I applied.
The manager, Tsai Wen-hsiang, interviewed me on a rainy afternoon.
He was fifty-six, with a neat mustache and the habit of carefully polishing his glasses whenever he needed to think.
He studied my résumé.
Then looked toward me.
“You're an engineer?”
“Yes.”
“Graduate researcher?”
“Yes.”
He frowned.
“Why do you want to work in a restaurant?”
I smiled.