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“I like this house,” I assured them. After all, what’s not to like? Ten thousand square feet all to myself. Stocked pantry. Staff of five. Parents who only fly in on occasion. The rest of the time I’m left to my own devices. And yet, here they are, kicking me out of a house they hardly ever set foot in.
My mother seemed to read my mind. “When I was your age—”
“I know.” I rolled my eyes. “You were already married and knocked up.”
My father started that pacing thing he does. “Why must you always be so crass, Melanie?”
I couldn’t argue with that. It’s what led to this situation.
“Do you realize the predicament you’ve put us in? The embarrassment this has caused?”
I threw my hands in the air. “Well, obviously. You keep reminding me.”
The night before, I’d cost him his biggest client by getting drunk at the semi-annual charity event my parents put on. It wasn’t intentional. I just glanced at the list of donors, chose the largest one, and gravitated that way. I hadn’t meant to sleep with him. But I hadn’t meant not to either. What was I supposed to do? I was bored. I didn’t even want to go in the first place. But my parents insisted I “show face”— whatever that means. I certainly succeeded at that in the end, though, they would attest. A full bar and a little coercion are a bad mix for me. Someone should have warned them.
Now, he’s downstairs pacing again, she’s probably pinching the bridge of her nose, pleading with him to stop, and I don’t know why they’re acting so dramatic about the whole thing.
“How will you ever amount to anything if you keep behaving in this manner?” My mother demanded to know after the incident, or rather after hotel security was called. The way they were acting, you’d think it was the actual police or something. You’d think I murdered the guy, not just fucked him. And they think they’re embarrassed? Let me tell you. He was old. Sure, to their point, he was married, and yes, I may have caused a bit of a scene when he said sleeping with me was a mistake, but that’s no reason to turn your back on your flesh and blood.
Needless to say, my parents don’t see it that way. They only see in dollar signs. So, here I am, Hermes bag in hand, on the verge of being homeless.
“You need to get a job or volunteer…or something,” my father said. “You do nothing but sleep all day and God knows what all night.”
Apparently, it wasn’t a question, and seducing his biggest clients was not the response he’d been after.
“You’re twenty-two years old, Melanie. It’s time. Your mother and I simply can’t support this behavior anymore.”
My mouth gaped. I shifted from foot to foot. “Where am I supposed to go?” Please say the Bahamas house. Please. Please. Please. I crossed my fingers behind my back.
My mother looked like she wanted to cry, so I figured I wasn’t getting my first choice. Fine. The Aspen house? Then she did cry, and I thought, surely that’s it. She really loves that house. It was probably a compromise with my father, as a part of their good cop, bad cop routine. If I have to kick her out, you have to give her the Aspen house. It would take some redecorating—it’s safe to say my mother and I have very different taste—and sure, I’d have to get used to the cold, but it could be workable.
Better yet, maybe they bought me my own. It’s not like my mother to concede, and I’ve been pining for something that belongs to me. I told them as much, and they got me a puppy instead. I’ll leave that story for another day. The short version is I’m no longer a dog owner.
When I come downstairs, bag in hand, my father hands me an envelope. I could cry. I could leap up and down and throw my arms around him. Finally. The deed to my very own home. His sudden frown at my eagerness to rip the envelope from his hands kills my excitement. I feel dead inside. “We’ve cancelled your credit cards,” he says. “That one there,” he points, “It’s prepaid. I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to budget.”
My face drops. My stomach follows suit. It’s not the deed to my own house. I break out in a cold sweat, and that’s not an exaggeration. Budget. Who has time for that? Prepaid? I don’t even know what this means. That word wasn’t even on my radar, and I didn’t think my father’s either.
“How could you do this to your only daughter?”
They stare at the floor. I assume they weren’t prepared for that question. It always cuts right to the heart of the matter. For all of us.
“Now I’m going to be like all of those people you think you’re better than. You realize that, right? You know, the ones you look down on?” I throw up my hands. Clearly, they haven’t thought this through. “What are you going to tell people?”
They look at each other. No one speaks. My parents were born into money, both of them. Their business, as successful as it might be—even with the untimely departure of their largest client—is just a front for hiding some of that good old money.
Finally, my father sighs. “Donovan is waiting in the car,” he tells me, glancing at my one bag. “Have you finished packing all your things?”
Donovan is our family driver. Look at these two. They even outsource kicking their daughter out.
“You’re serious?” I search the foyer for hidden cameras, a sign that this is all a joke. Then I pinch myself, watching as the blood p
ools to the surface. “Ouch.”
“Please don’t hurt yourself dear,” my mother pleads. She wipes a fake tear from her fake eyelashes. She acts like she cares. She only cares about herself. If I off myself, it’ll be on her conscience. “We know you’ll make us proud.”
I shake my head. “This feels like a dream.”
“It’s time you face reality,” my father says.
