“So you want me out tomorrow, but you want my bank account to stay?”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
I reminded him that I had paid three years of rent, delayed buying my own home, and covered groceries, parking, household expenses, and the furniture Madison planned to use. Dad cut me off. “You benefited from living here too. Stop acting like a martyr.”
“I moved here because you told me you couldn’t survive alone after Mom died.”
“That was three years ago. I’m better now.”
“Then why am I still paying for everything?”
His face reddened. Logan muttered, “This is exactly why we didn’t tell you earlier.” Then Dad slapped his palm against the table.
“Enough. Pack your things and leave, you parasite.”
Silence dropped over the room. Even Madison’s expression flickered.
I stared at my father. “Dad just called me what?”
He looked away first, then laughed. “Don’t make this dramatic. They deserve this place more than you do. They’re building a family. You’re building spreadsheets.”
Something inside me stopped pleading. I folded my napkin, placed it beside my plate, and said, “Understood.”
Dad mistook calm for surrender. “Good. I’m picking them up from their hotel at nine tomorrow. Be gone by noon. And leave the office furniture. Madison needs it.”
I went into my bedroom and locked the door. For nearly an hour, I sat on the floor holding Mom’s blue scarf, still hoping Dad might knock and apologize.
He never came.