Not metaphorical bills.
Actual paper invoices printed on his company letterhead and slid beneath my bedroom door every Sunday night.
He calculated the cost of cereal, milk, bread, and toothpaste down to the cent.
He even included tax.
When I turned sixteen, I got a part-time job bussing tables at a diner off Route 9.
Four-hour shifts after school.
Grease burns across my forearms.
Minimum wage, minus tips I had to split with the dishwasher.
Dad responded by charging me thirty dollars a week for my bedroom.
He entered it into the household budget with my name beside the line item in red ink.
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