“She’s my daughter!” he snapped, his face flushing red.
“Then be her father,” I replied coolly. “Fully. On your own dime, from your own account. If Ashley wants to enjoy the privileges of adulthood, she can treat the adults in her life with respect. And if you want to shield her from the consequences of her disrespect, you can fund her cushion yourself.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but his phone rang—Ashley calling again, no doubt frantic about her declined cards and canceled rent autopay. He answered it angrily, stepping out onto the back patio, his voice rising through the glass as he tried to explain to his daughter that he would have to transfer money from his own personal checking account to cover her balance. An account, I knew for a fact, that didn’t have enough liquid cash to cover her luxury habits without dipping into his retirement savings.
