My father kept the store open until nine on Saturdays, which meant we ate late, and I have never since been able to eat supper at a reasonable hour. He’d come through the back door still smelling of the shop — cardboard and machine oil — and my mother would already have his plate covered on the stove.
I asked him once why he didn’t just close at six like everybody else. He said the people who needed him most were the ones who couldn’t get there before six.