Page 7 of The Deadbeat DILF
“Are you still thinking about opening that car detailing business you told me about last time?” I asked Brandon.
Brandon shrugged as he stuffed the last half of a dinner roll into his mouth. “I’ve been doing some research, and I think a donut shop might be a better investment. Pretty cheap to make donuts.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic—a donut shop would probably be cheaper to run than a car detailing business—but it was clear nothing had changed with him either. Every time I visited, he talked about the new business he’d start, the one that would finally make him rich.
I’d lost count of how many businesses he’d started over the years.
Everyone went silent as they ate, but I noticed them all glancing at each other, and my body went tight with tension. I knew what was about to happen.
“It’s been a little tough the last few months,” Mom told me with a frown. “We’ve been doing our best and working hard, but we fall short sometimes.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even nod because I knew they didn’t care about my reaction. They only wanted a specific answer from me.
“We’re glad you’re still doing well at your job,” Dad spoke, prompting nods from everyone else. “But we need some help. The plumbing in this house is a mess. We’re at risk of being flooded if it doesn’t get fixed soon.”
There it was.
“I gave you a few thousand last month,” I reminded them in a calm voice, fighting the frustration that crackled through me like bolts of lightning.
“That went to new tires for your father’s truck and bills,” Mom told me. “When you get older, things start piling up and adding up.”
I was old enough to understand how expenses worked, and I was responsible enough not to land myself in debt like them.
I couldn’t keep giving them money. Each time I visited, I told myself I’d stop, and I never did.
This time, I’d put a stop to the cycle.
I took a deep breath. “I understand,” I replied, folding my hands in my lap. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to the house, even if it didn’t feel like home anymore, but I highly doubted any money I gave them would be used for plumbing. “But I’m sorry. I can’t give you any more money.”
The air shifted immediately. Dad downed the rest of his beer before setting the empty bottle on the table with a loud thump, making me flinch. “Why not? Do you know all the money we spent raising you and your brother?”
That was an argument as old as time. I couldn’t count how many times he had used that one on me.
I hadn’t asked to be born. As parents, it was their responsibility to raise me. I was grateful that they’d never neglected me — we’d always had food on the table and books for school — but that was literally the bare minimum.
Besides, they hadn’t been the most supportive family growing up. Once, in high school, I made the mistake of telling them I wanted to be a lawyer. Immediately, Mom and Dad told me it was impossible. They couldn’t afford to pay for my college, and I’d have to go to a community college, or better yet, get a job as soon as I graduated.
Thankfully, I’d won a scholarship to attend college and taken out student loans to cover the rest of my expenses. Ashcroft paid me a high salary, so I’d paid off my student loans a few years ago.
“I don’t want to argue,” I said, “but every time I’ve given you money, you’ve wasted it. You haven’t fixed up the house, the truck, or paid off any debts. You’re spending it on alcohol or gambling it away. I even paid for a business course for Brandon, and he dropped out halfway.”
“Because it was a scam! They were teaching me stuff I already knew. There was no point in finishing it,” Brandon said, and Gemma clung to his arm, shooting me a warning glare.
“You really think we’ve blown thousands of dollars on stuff like that?” my mother questioned me.
“I know you have. I gave you money to help pay off the mortgage, and you spent it on a vacation to the beach,” I reminded her.
They tried hiding all their irresponsible spending from me, but they lived in a rundown house with dozens of overdue bills piled up on the kitchen counter. It didn’t help that they blasted their vacation photos or pictures of new phones or silly gadgets on Facebook.
“So, we don’t deserve a vacation? We all bust our asses as much as you, but we can’t spend a weekend at the beach without getting judged for it?” Dad demanded.
“I didn’t say that,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and calm despite the anxiety creeping beneath my skin.
I’d dealt with angry clients at my work before, but this was different. This was my family, and it hurt like a thousand knives every time they were angry with me.
I wanted to get out of here. Now.
“You’re kind of saying that,” Gemma muttered as she twisted her hair around her finger.
