He was sitting on his porch swing, the one that squeaks every time the wind blows. He was staring at the grease-stained paper bag in my hand like I was holding a live grenade.
“It’s just dinner, Grandpa,” I snapped. I was tired. My feet hurt. I make $55,000 a year, yet I’m living in his basement because the city chewed me up and spat me out. “I had a hard week. I deserve a treat.”
“A treat,” he repeated. He took a sip of his instant coffee. The stuff that tastes like burnt dirt. “I drink coffee. You drink a car payment.”
I walked past him, angry.
Inside, the house smelled like it always does—pine cleaner and old paper. The silence was loud.
No Netflix. No high-speed fiber. Just an antenna TV that gets six channels and a landline that only rings when telemarketers call.
I sat at the kitchen table and opened the container. A gourmet cheeseburger and truffle fries. Cold.
Frank walked in. He heated up a bowl of beans and a cut-up hot dog in the microwave.
“Must be nice,” he muttered, sitting opposite me.
That was it. The fuse blew.