My father called me a parasite while chewing a steak I had paid for. That was the part I remember most clearly.

My father called me a parasite while chewing a steak I had paid for.

That was the part I remember most clearly.

Not the shouting. Not my mother staring at her plate. Not even the way Dad pointed his knife toward me like I had personally ruined his life.

It was the steak.

A twenty-eight-dollar dry-aged ribeye from a butcher in Midtown Sacramento. I had bought four of them after finishing a difficult corporate consulting project. I had also purchased the asparagus, potatoes, butter, wine, and the expensive sea salt sitting beside Dad's left hand.

Yet somehow, I was the freeloader.

“Maybe it’s time you started buying your own food,” my father, Thomas Whitaker, said. He leaned back in his chair. “Actually, maybe it’s time you stopped living off us completely.”

My mother, Diane, looked uncomfortable but nodded. Dad saw her agreement and became bolder.

“You’re twenty-eight, Lauren. Twenty-eight. You work from your bedroom. You eat our groceries. You use our electricity. You sit under our roof. At some point, an adult has to have some pride.”

I stared at him. Then I glanced toward the chandelier above our dining table. I paid that electric bill. I looked toward the hallway where the wireless router blinked blue. I paid for that too. I looked at the refrigerator filled with food purchased on my credit card. The espresso machine beside it. The dishwasher pods. The paper towels. The executive Costco membership Dad loved bragging about to his buddies.

All mine.

“All right,” I said quietly, placing my fork beside my plate.

Dad frowned. “All right what?”

“Starting tonight, I’ll pay only for myself.”

His expression softened into smug satisfaction. “Good. Maybe this will finally teach you something.”