“No mistake,” my father said. His voice was careful. “Property values have gone up. We’ve been undercharging you for a while.”
“Doubling it overnight?” I asked, incredulous. “That’s not reasonable.”
“We feel it’s fair,” he said, and I could hear the strain in his voice, as if he didn’t fully believe it but had decided to say it anyway.
“Dad,” I said, voice low, “is this because I complained about Vanessa?”
There was a pause long enough to confirm the answer before he spoke.
He sighed. “Your mother and I think you’re being unnecessarily difficult. Vanessa needs support right now.”
“So it’s punishment,” I said.
“It’s not punishment,” he insisted. “It’s reality. If you want to live alone, you pay market rate. If you want the family rate, you help the family.”
The words landed like a trap snapping shut.
I did mental math. At the new rate, rent would take nearly half my take-home pay. Half. Then utilities, which were already inflated by Vanessa. Student loans. Food. Transportation. I’d be left with almost nothing. No savings. No safety net. No ability to keep chipping away at debt. The progress I’d been proud of would stall, maybe reverse.
