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

At 6:45 AM, Thomas Whitaker walked into the kitchen in his flannel bathrobe, humming to himself as he reached for the chrome portafilter of the commercial-grade Breville espresso machine.

The machine was gone.

In its place sat a clean, empty square of countertop and an unplugged outlet.

Beside the sink, the artisan whole-bean dark roast from Colombia was missing, along with the organic whole milk and the European unsalted butter.

On the kitchen island, an old, dusty drip coffee pot from 2008 had been pulled from the top pantry shelf, sitting beside a tin of generic ground coffee that had expired eighteen months ago.

Beside it lay a neatly folded handwritten note from me:

“As requested, I have removed all personal grocery items and culinary appliances purchased with my funds. Best, Lauren.”

Thomas scoffed, crumpling the note and tossing it into the wastebasket. “Petty,” he muttered aloud. “Throwing a tantrum over an espresso machine.”

He went to the refrigerator, pulled open the door, and froze.

The shelves, usually packed with marinated steaks, fresh berries, artisan cheeses, deli meats, and prepared lunches, were stripped bare.

The only things remaining were half a jar of yellow mustard, three eggs, a bottle of tap water, and a wilting stalk of celery that had been pushed to the back crisper drawer.

Thomas grabbed his smartphone from his pocket to check the local grocery app.

The phone showed no internet connection.

He walked to the hallway where the router had always blinked a confident blue. The router was dark.