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

On Monday morning, the mail carrier dropped four thick envelopes through the brass mail slot of 442 Sycamore Drive.

Three of them were bright, fluorescent orange.

Thomas picked them up from the entryway rug, his heart performing an uncomfortable flutter against his ribs:

Sacramento Municipal Utility District (SMUD): Final Notice of Disconnection. Account balance: $442.18. Reason: Recurring auto-pay via corporate Visa terminated by account owner.

County Tax Collector: Second Quarter Supplemental Property Tax Assessment. Amount due: $2,140.00. Penalty for late filing: $214.00.

State Farm Mutual: Cancellation of Comprehensive Collision Policy for 2019 Ford F-150. Amount past due: $340.00.

Thomas marched down the hallway, slamming his fist against my bedroom door.

“Lauren! Open this door right now!”

I clicked the electronic deadbolt I had installed two days prior and swung the door open.

I was wearing a tailored navy blazer and slacks, wearing my noise-canceling headset, holding an iced latte prepared from the compact cold-brew unit on my dresser. Behind me, my room was immaculate, cool, and filled with sunlight.

“Yes, Dad?” I asked smoothly.

Thomas thrust the orange envelopes into my face, his veins throbbing along his temples.

“What is the meaning of this?! The electric bill has your name crossed off! The tax bill came to my name! The car insurance was canceled!”

“You told me on Wednesday that an adult has to have some pride,” I replied, my voice sweet and even. “You said I was living off your roof and using your utilities. Since those utilities, taxes, and auto policies belong to your home and your truck, I simply removed my name and banking links so you could enjoy the pride of paying for them yourself.”

Thomas stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating bass.

“I don't have three thousand dollars lying around in the middle of the month!” he roared.