That’s what my father snapped at me from the kitchen, his jaw tight and that artificial smile he reserved for his important guests stretched across his face. I froze, holding the lemon cake I had baked myself—still warm, still carrying the smell of butter and the memory of quieter Sundays, back when my family didn’t pretend to be something else.
I lived in the basement of my parents’ house, in an upscale neighborhood in Beverly Hills. Calling it a “basement” made it sound better than it was: damp walls, a fold-out bed, an old electric burner, and a flickering lamp that sometimes felt like it was laughing at me. And yes—I paid rent. To my own parents.
Upstairs, everything looked like a magazine spread. My mother had hired catering, brought in imported glassware, and decorated with flowers that cost more than I earned in months. They were celebrating their thirtieth anniversary with businessmen, polished wives, and people who judged worth by the watch on your wrist. My younger brother, Ethan, moved through the crowd like he owned everything, talking about investments and deals he barely understood.