“Ashley just texted me,” Greg said, his voice scratchy with sleep. He held up his phone, his thumb hovering over a flurry of frantic messages. “She said her gas card was declined at the Shell station on her way to class. Did you forget to move the funds again?”

I took a slow sip of my coffee, savoring the heat. “I didn’t forget, Greg. I removed my card from the account entirely. Along with the auto-pay for her insurance, her tuition portal, and the lease agreement for the Toyota.”

Greg stared at me, his mouth slightly open, waiting for the punchline. When none came, his face began to redden, that familiar vein in his forehead beginning to pulse. “What are you talking about? She needs to get to class. She has a sorority formal this weekend. Diane, this isn’t funny. You’re being vindictive because of a little argument at dinner.”

“It wasn’t an argument,” I said, my voice as steady as a heartbeat. “It was a clarification. You told me, quite clearly and in front of my family, that I am not Ashley’s parent. You told me I have no right to guide her, correct her, or expect respect from her. I spent the night thinking about that, Greg, and I realized you were absolutely right. Since I am not her mother, I have no business managing her life. And since you are her only parent, the financial and administrative burden of her lifestyle now rests entirely on your shoulders.”

I handed him the papers. They were a breakdown of the “Ashley Expense.” It wasn’t just the big things. It was the $200 Amazon packages that arrived weekly, the premium Spotify and Netflix accounts, the “emergency” Venmo transfers for brunch with her friends, and the gap in her tuition that Greg’s salary—mostly tied up in his own debts from his previous divorce—couldn’t possibly cover.

“You can’t do this,” Greg stammered, looking at the total at the bottom of the page. “I can’t cover this on my own right now. My bonus isn’t until January, and the alimony to Brenda is still draining me. We’re a team, Diane!”