Mark was already drinking when I arrived. His face was flushed, his laugh too loud, his movements loose. His kids barely looked up from their phones. Jessica, his ex-wife, gave me a tight smile and stared down at her plate.
Halfway through dinner, after my mother had spent twenty minutes complaining about her neighbors, Mark lifted his glass and laughed. It was not warm. It was sharp and ugly.
“Funny thing,” he said, slightly slurring. “The people who live off everyone else always act the most generous.”
The table went silent. I set down my fork.
“What are you talking about, Mark?” I asked.
He looked straight at me and smirked.
“You,” he said. “You’re a freeloader. A leech. You wouldn’t survive without me.”
For a second, I laughed because I thought I had misunderstood.
“Mark,” I said slowly, “I send you five thousand dollars every month. I’ve done that for three years. Are you hearing yourself?”
He shrugged as if the money meant nothing.
