Grandpa suddenly stopped chewing. “Wait… you’re paying rent to your own parents?” I froze in my seat. Before I could respond, Dad brushed the question aside with a careless wave. “Your sister has two kids,” he said. “She needs the help more than you.” Silence spread across the table as Grandpa slowly lowered his fork. No one was prepared for what he said next…

Not in a real bedroom. Not in an apartment.

Half of an unfinished concrete basement, separated from storage boxes by an old sheet. I bought my own food, paid my own bills, and could only use the washing machine late at night.

Dad said Vanessa needed support because she had kids.

Mom said I was young and single, so I could afford it.

Then Grandpa asked how long this had been happening.

“Since I turned twenty-one,” I admitted.

He went very still.

Then he stood and said, “Roxanne, help me in the kitchen.”

Dad tried to stop him, but Grandpa’s voice turned hard.

“It wasn’t a request.”
Part 2

In the kitchen, Grandpa asked me to tell him the truth.

I tried to defend my parents at first. I said it wasn’t so bad. I said I worked overtime. I repeated the excuses I had been trained to believe.

But little by little, the truth came out.

The rent had started at four hundred dollars. Then six hundred. Then, when Vanessa moved back home with her sons, it became nine hundred.

Every time I tried to save money and leave, a new family emergency appeared.

Dad’s truck needed repairs.