Page 4 of Robbin’ the Rich

She moved to Chicago a few months later. We tried long-distance for a while, but eventually we drifted apart. There was no giant heartbreak or dramatic ending, just distance and time and becoming different people.

Still, every once in a while, something reminded me of her unexpectedly. Apparently today it had been one overly enthusiastic redhead on roller skates.

I pulled into my parents’ driveway and smiled automatically at the sight of the house glowing warmly against the rainy evening.

My parents still lived in the same sprawling colonial I grew up in, because apparently only children with good relationships with their parents never escaped emotionally or geographically.

The front porch light flicked on before I even made it up the walkway.

Right on cue, the front door swung open and my mother leaned out wearing yoga pants, fuzzy socks, and the expression of a woman who considered feeding people her primary love language.

“There you are,” she called. “Your father already opened the wine.”

The second I stepped inside, I got hit with the smell of garlic, oregano, and baked cheese. My mother had made her lasagna.

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously as I toed off my shoes near the door. “What did you do?”

My mother pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “Can I not simply make my only child her favorite meal?”

“No. This is emotional support lasagna, or guilt lasagna. Which one is it?”

From the dining room my father called, “Your mother bought decorative pumpkins she absolutely did not need.”

“They were on sale, David.”

“There are twelve of them, Susan.”

“Autumn is an experience.”

I snorted softly, warmth settling low in my chest despite myself.

This was what my parents had always been like. Loving. Stable. A little ridiculous. I’d spent most of my life being overly adored. Only child syndrome probably should’ve made me unbearable, but luckily roller derby had humbled me through repeated physical violence.

Mom swept me into a quick hug before fussing with the hood of my rain jacket. “You look tired.”

“I stayed up too late reorganizing a spreadsheet. It was kind of fun.”

Dad appeared in the doorway holding two glasses of wine. “That’s my girl.”

See? Doted on. Hopelessly.

I took the wine and followed him toward the kitchen island while Mom finished plating dinner. The house looked exactly like it had when I was growing up. Same dark wood floors. Same family photos lining the walls. Same enormous bookshelf Dad kept insisting he would organize... eventually.

He leaned against the counter beside me. “How’s work?”

My father was an accountant too.

“Thrilling. I moved numbers from one spreadsheet to another spreadsheet.”

He nodded seriously. “Powerful.”

“I also bullied Chad from payroll in an email.”

“Excellent. Keep him humble.”

This was how we bonded. Some people played catch with their fathers. We discussed tax codes and office incompetence. Dad had owned his own accounting firm that I joined after college, and working together had only brought us closer.

Mom set the lasagna dish down on the table with a flourish. “Dinner, before it gets cold.”