Page 8 of The Deadbeat DILF
“What I’m hearing is that you don’t care if we suffer or not,” Mom snapped at me, her face turning red. “You can buy all your fancy clothes and purses and stuff the pockets of corporations with a bunch of money, but you can’t even help your own family!”
A lump formed in my throat. I’d heard this a million times.
“You didn’t use to be this selfish,” Brandon said, shaking his head at me. “You can’t even help a little bit? I’m sure you can give up your Peloton subscription for a few months to chip in.”
I stared at him. He used to take my side when we were younger, but that had all changed once I went to college. He’d grown more distant with each of my achievements: getting into law school, starting my job at Ashcroft, getting promoted. Now he was on the same team as my parents, and I was always the only one defending myself.
“You know what? I don’t even want to see you here at our table. You don’t treat us like family, we won’t treat you likefamily,” Dad said as he swatted in my direction like I was a begging dog. “Let us know when you want to act like our daughter again.”
“Or a good person is an even better place to start,” my mother sneered at me.
My bottom lip threatened to tremble, but I maintained a straight face as I rose from the table. After years of dealing with my family, as well as working with difficult clients, I’d learned to be pretty good at hiding my emotions.
“Thank you for lunch,” I managed, and fought back my tears as I strode out of my childhood family home. The front door slammed shut behind me, and I almost jumped.
For the first fifteen minutes after getting kicked out of the house, I felt numb. My family’s harsh words played on a loop over and over again in my mind. I’d heard it all before — that I was a greedy lawyer who would rather help corporations make more money than help my own family. That I was a disappointment as a daughter.
It hurt how quickly they switched up. They’d actually been kind of friendly when I first arrived, but as soon as I didn’t agree to help them…
They only saw me as a money tree. As their own personal bank.
By the time I made it to a seat in the back of the train, I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, and they spilled down my cheeks. I muffled my sobs with the back of my hand pressed against my mouth.
I was almost thirty. I wasn’t a helpless little girl anymore. So why did their words continue to wound me so deeply?
CHAPTER FOUR
The roar of the shower filled my ears, distracting me from the awful memories of lunch with my family. Closing my eyes, I tilted my head back, letting the hot water flow through my hair. I needed to refresh myself and wash away the grime and heaviness of the day.
At least I was back home in my apartment, where I felt safe. It was a shame that I couldn’t feel that way in my own childhood home.
Was I really a bad person, like they claimed? Was I shallow, greedy, and selfish?
Maybe I was. Maybe I shouldn’t have argued and just written them a check, like I had every other time.
My stomach twisted, and when I shut off the water, the volume of my thoughts amplified. I dried off and twirled my hair up in a microfiber towel before stepping up to my long bathroom counter with a lit-up mirror.
I reached for my small but expensive collection of skincare products. I hadn’t thought twice when buying these products, so why didn’t I give my family money?
Because they would waste it whereas I treasured every single thing that I bought myself. Every single thing that I earned by putting years and years of hard work and effort into my career. How many hours did I spend studying throughout high school, college, and law school? How many late hours did I pull at my law firm?
But despite everything, I still felt guilty.
I tried to focus on applying my skincare, meticulously putting on each layer until my skin glowed. But my heart still felt heavy.
After putting on my pajama dress, I took my laptop to the dining table and started searching for charities. Impulsively, I donated money to a variety of causes: animal shelters, human rights organizations, cancer research, homeless shelters.
There. This was proof I wasn’t a horrible person. A greedy person wouldn’t have donated to charity.
Still, the painful emptiness in my gut remained. The donations hadn’t been enough.
There had to be something I could do to prove I wasn’t a bad person.
I wanted to help someone personally. I wanted a grateful smile, not the ugly words my family had shouted at me.
Robert popped into my mind. The smile he’d given me when I agreed to help him had been so nice. He’d said I was an angel.
But then he’d looked defeated the last time I saw him. Not only was I unable to help him out with the apartment situation, but I didn’t even allow him to feel like he properly thanked me for my time and effort.
