My mother, that hopeless pushover. Dad never gave her a dime, and she still cleaned his house. Still cooked his meals. Still dragged me along to help.
Every word I spoke dripped with resentment.
Even Zachery was squirming in his seat.
My father slammed his palm on the table.
"You took your mother's name. That means you're not my child. Your mother can't afford to raise you? That's her problem for being useless. What's it got to do with me?"
"I offered to raise you as long as you switched your name back. Your mother refused! And the housework? That's her job. I don't even charge her rent."
"You're all grown up now. Even if I gave you money, you probably wouldn't remember any kindness from me. After all, whoever raises a child is the one they love."
"You won't need me in my old age anyway, so we might as well keep things the way they are..."
In plain terms, he was done with me. He didn't want to spend a dime.
His parents didn't make a sound. They were on his side, always had been. They only invested in the kid who carried their name.