My Parents Demanded $500 Rent From My 18-year-old Daughter. They Forgot I’ve Been Secretly Paying Their $2,400 Mortgage For Five Years. Should I Stop The Payments?

Pot roast filled my parents’ dining room. Salt, onions, the illusion of warmth.

The illusion didn’t reach the table. My daughter Avery sat across from me with her fork hovering, eyes on my mother.

The Dinner Demand

Diane cleared her throat. One small sound and I was twelve again, a girl bracing for impact.

“Avery,” she said, placing her wine glass down with care.

“You’re 18 now, an adult.”

Avery nodded, shoulders tight.

“Adults contribute,” Diane continued.

“You’ve stayed here long enough. Starting next month, you pay $500 a month.”

My father Glenn nodded without looking up.

“Or she finds somewhere else.”

Avery blinked fast.

“I’m in school,” she said.

“I work at the bookstore.”

“But then you add hours,” Diane cut in.

“We’re not running a charity.”

I watched my child’s hands begin to shake. She set her fork down; tears gathered, stubborn and silent.

Love with an Invoice

My mother savored that moment, the instant someone realized love came with an invoice.

“Mom,” I said, keeping my voice level.

“We should discuss this privately.”

“There’s nothing private about paying your way,” Glenn said.

“We did in 1978.”

I answered,

“When rent didn’t swallow a paycheck.”

Diane waved it off.

“Excuses. I won’t watch you raise her to be entitled.”

Heat climbed my neck. Under the table, I touched Avery’s knee—a quiet hold.

“You’re right,” I said.

“Let’s put everything on the table. All expenses, complete transparency.”

Diane’s smile flashed.

“Exactly.”

The Hidden Mortgage

I reached into my bag and pulled out my laptop. The hinge snapped open louder than it should have.

“Since we’re talking costs,” I said, turning the screen toward them.

“Let’s start with the payments on this house.”

Glenn’s knife stopped mid-slice.

“What payments? We paid it off.”

I met his eyes.

“Did you?”

Silence settled over the table. Diane’s eyes narrowed at my screen.

“What are you implying, Marin?”

I opened my banking app.

*”I’m implying the mortgage never died. You refinanced in 2019—kitchen and vacations—when Dad’s consulting dried up. The payment stopped.”

The Cost of Staying Housed

Glenn’s jaw flexed.

“That’s not your business.”

“It became my business the first time you called me about foreclosure,” I said, forcing calm into each syllable.

Avery’s gaze flicked between us.

“Grandma?”

Diane stared at her plate. I scrolled.

“September 2020, three months behind. I covered it—7,200.”

I tapped the next entries.

“Then 2400 every month since.”

“Stop,” Diane whispered, knuckles tight on her glass.

Glenn pushed back his chair.

“You had no right.”

“No right to keep you housed,” I asked,

“while you bought a new car and repainted the living room?”