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

Saturday afternoon was the annual Whitaker family barbecue at Uncle Bob’s spacious home in Carmichael.

The backyard smelled of mesquite charcoal, burgers, and beer. Twenty relatives—uncles, aunts, and cousins—were lounging on the patio furniture under the shade of the grand oak trees.

Thomas stood near the garage with Uncle Bob and Aunt Linda, clutching a cheap can of domestic beer, trying desperately to rebuild his bruised ego.

“Yeah, Bob,” Thomas began, raising his voice so the cousins could hear. “It’s tough love, but sometimes a father has to put his foot down. I told Lauren this week: no more free rides. She was getting way too comfortable living off Diane and me. Eating our steaks, using our electricity, saving all her money while we carry the weight.”

Uncle Bob took a sip of his beer, nodding slowly. “Well, kids today have it easy, Tom. But you’ve always been generous.”

“Too generous, Bob! That’s my flaw!” Thomas boomed, puffing out his chest. “I took her back in when she had nowhere to go. Fed her, sheltered her, carried her on my back. But a real man teaches his kids independence.”

I walked out through the screen door onto the patio, carrying a tray of homemade fruit skewers I had brought from town.

I stopped four feet behind my father.

“Is that the story you’re telling this year, Dad?” I asked.

The patio went quiet. Uncle Bob lowered his tongs. Aunt Linda turned around.