Almost five years ago, my life changed in a way few would ever dream possible and even fewer could actually claim to have experienced. Everything was thrown into disarray — my very social identity was transformed, and I was powerless to stop it. Like so many before me, I fell victim to my father’s career change. Luckily, this isn’t a story of displacement to a remote region I can't pronounce, but of how my father decided to open a candy store.

First: No, I cannot get you free candy. This is something I can seldom take advantage of myself. I don’t mean to be selfish, but I can’t allow some random reader to jeopardize my supply. Second: If you approach me, chances are I will not happen to be carrying around whatever your favorite candy is. I’m not a piñata. Third: I’ve seen both Willy Wonka movies, and I’m sorry if I spoil your fantasy, but as of yet, we have neither a chocolate waterfall nor an army of orange-faced midgets. Get over it.

In early 2005, my dad was struck with the inspiration that our little suburb of Pittsburgh was in dire need of a candy store. His father had owned a clothing store in upstate New York, and I would guess that, just like him, my dad was bit by the entrepreneurial bug. It’s a fairly common pest that tends to run in families — lucky me. Nothing in his previous lines of work in aerospace, Apple computers, a bookstore and a society for automotive engineers would lend itself to or explain his newfound career, but he had made his decision.

Village Candy opened in the small town of Sewickley, Penn. about one year later, with upcoming freshman Elliot Alpern as its first employee. Initially, it was a fulfillment of everything I wanted: free candy, a salary and a boss who, at times, I could relate to. Tasks in a given day included sorting jelly beans, bundling licorice into bags and helping customers find that one candy bar that, decades earlier, had made them a very happy child. I saw my friends daily and had my finger on the pulse of the town. It was perfect.

The problem with perfection, in any case, is that it doesn’t exist. Some things can be close for a few fleeting moments, but from a tower of cards to your last great relationship, they tend not to last. A business takes an inordinate amount of effort to maintain, and anybody who grew up in a small-business family can tell you that a store is like another family member. It needs to be cared after at all times; you can’t put it in a kennel for a vacation. When it has a problem, everybody connected to it has a problem. Accordingly, when you become ingrained in a business to that extent, it becomes a part of who you are.

After 2006, whenever a friend would introduce me, it would go something along the lines of “This is Elliot. His dad owns the candy store.” It was a cool novelty for the first few times, but as “hisdadownsthecandystore” became my last name, I began to wonder whether or not that was my public identity. First impressions are hard to change, and though I accepted the role, I always wondered who thought of me as Elliot and who had simply classified me as “that kid with the candy store.”

I also swiftly learned that working for your parents is extremely different from working for an objective employer. Your parents can call you in a scant five minutes before the arrival of 1,000 pounds of M&Ms (seriously, by way of tractor-trailer), and they generally know your whereabouts for the day, making it impossible to claim a predetermined scheduling conflict. Almost any time of day, any day of the week, I was unofficially on call, waiting to give emergency relief in the event of the local summer camp bringing unfailingly excited preschoolers to spend exactly $1.50 each in confections (and honestly, who trusts four-year-olds with arithmetic). I wasn’t an employee so much as an indentured servant.

I spent about two solid years considering the store a parasitic influence on my life.