“You are my son.”

“Then why am I getting a rent bill with breakfast?”

“Because you’re eighteen now, and the first of the month is still coming.”

He pushed the paper toward me, then reached for his coffee.

There was a brown burn ring on the kitchen table beside his chair, older than I was willing to guess.

He had never bothered to sand it out or cover it with a placemat.

I wanted him to take the paper back.