Things never settled down. They just got used to my money.

Brent hasn’t become grateful. He’s become pretentious.

He treated my transfers like air, something he didn’t need to notice in order to keep breathing.

Then, one Sunday, I came back from a business trip and found my suitcase in the hallway.

Brent stood there with his arms crossed and his chin up, as if he were trying to look authoritative.

“You can’t keep living here,” he said. “You’re thirty-four. It’s pathetic.”

I blinked. “Brent… I’ll pay the mortgage.”

He laughed loudly, a high-pitched laugh. “Yeah, because you’re a parasite,” he said. “You cling to this house to pretend you’re indispensable.”

That word hit me like a slap.

My mother appeared behind him, wringing her hands, her gaze darting from side to side. I waited for him to stop. For him to say, “That’s enough.”

Instead, he whispered, “Naomi, please don’t argue. Brent is stressed.”

Stressed.

I looked at her. “You just called me a parasite,” I said softly.

Mom’s voice tightened with anxiety. “You always make things worse.”