My mom pats me on the shoulder like I’m the dramatic one. “Sweetheart, we love you, but your dad’s hot, and your mom’s still got it. You really gotta get your life together. Thirty-five and still living with your parents? Come on.”

I stare at her, aghast. “Maybe if I hadn’t been laid off and divorced just two years ago, I’d be gone already!”

I throw my bag onto the counter with enough force to rattle the half-empty whipped cream can, the sound echoing in the tense kitchen.

“But would you, though?” Dad quips, arching an eyebrow. “Two years is 730 days. That’s a long time, Kerry.”

Are my parents trying to evict me? Am I really that bad of a roommate? All I ask is that they keep their private parts covered and not in whipped cream! Is that too much?

Dad crosses his arms and speaks in an annoyingly philosophical tone. “Your life’s your responsibility now. Your divorce was a blessing, and getting laid off? That was a gift. Now, do something with both. Stop dreaming and start living, daughter.”

“Your dad’s right,” Mom adds, leaning against the counter like she’s about to drop some Oprah-level wisdom. “You know what I’d be doing at your age if I didn’t have an annoying man or a kid holding me back?”

Dad and I exchange amused, skeptical glances. “Do tell, Grace,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Mom places a hand on his chest, her playful smile cutting through the seriousness. “I’d be an international photographer! I’d travel the world taking photos, not booking birthday parties and wedding gigs. Stop wasting time, Kerry. Passive-aggressively holding on to your past isn’t going to get you anywhere. Chase your dreams. Whatever happened to your plans of running your own school? You’d make an amazing principal.”

Her words hit me like a sucker punch—not because they’re cruel, but because they’re true.

“Grace, her record, remember? Our sweet daughter’s a smooth criminal.” Dad chimes in, his voice softer.

Mom gasps, her face softening with genuine regret. “I’m so sorry, baby. Knowing the type of person you are, it’s so easy to forget what happened.”

“It’s okay, Mom. Maybe one day, I can get it expunged,” I hope, staring at the floor. “But I get your point. And all hope isn’t entirely lost. If I could get a teaching job soon—paraprofessional, substitute, anything—I’d be the happiest person in the world.”