Chapter 3

Linda's face instantly flushed red. She slammed the table.

"Gabriel Cole, have you lost your mind? You spent fifteen hundred on one meal? Are you deliberately picking a fight?"

"I spend my own salary. What I eat and how much I eat is my freedom. Is that any of your business?" I sneered. "What, you want to eat for free? Where's your contractual integrity?"

I glanced at Mason, whose cheeks were puffed out with anger, and added, "Oh, right. Besides the ingredient cost, there's also my labor fee.

"Buying groceries, washing them, and cooking took me an hour and a half. Based on private-chef rates, I'll give you a discount and charge fifty dollars for processing. Eight hundred total. Venmo or card?"

"Are you obsessed with money?" Mason threw his fork onto the table in rage. "Mom, look at him! He's so cheap he wants to charge us for one meal!"

Linda trembled with anger and pointed at me.

"Gabriel Cole, don't go too far! What married couple lives like this? If you're cooking anyway, what's wrong with making two extra dishes? Would it kill you?"

"Yes." I cut her off without mercy. "Doing something along the way is still labor. I don't want to provide free labor. Is that a problem? If you're unhappy, you can cook for yourself."

With that, I gathered my plate and wineglass and walked straight into the bedroom.

Outside the door came the sound of Linda smashing things and Mason complaining.

"Mom, I'm hungry! I want meat!"

"Eat, eat, eat! That's all you know! Order delivery!" Linda snapped.

Watching them choke on their own frustration felt wonderful.

And this was only the beginning.

The next morning, I was woken by furious pounding on my door.

"Gabriel Cole! Get out here!" Linda yelled from outside, her voice filled with rage she couldn't suppress.

I opened the door at a leisurely pace.

Linda was holding a wrinkled silk blouse that reeked of sweat.

Mason stood behind her, clutching a pair of school-uniform pants stained with oil. The mother and son blocked my doorway like two sentries.

"Look what time it is! Why didn't you do the laundry?" Linda shoved the blouse in front of my face and yelled.

"I have an important client meeting this morning. This is the only decent blouse I own. Are you expecting me to go to work smelling sour?"

Mason complained too.

"Yeah, Uncle. We have a flag ceremony at school today. I have to wear my uniform. If you don't wash it, how am I supposed to go to school? Are you trying to embarrass me on purpose?"

I stepped back and waved away the stench in disgust.

"Do you two have something wrong with your brains?

"If your clothes are dirty, don't you know how to put them into the washing machine? Did you lose your hands or your feet?"

"You've always washed them!" Linda shouted as if she were entirely justified. "Every morning, you wake up half an hour early, throw the laundry basket clothes into the washer, then hang them up. How big a deal is that? How did a grown man become so petty?"

In my last life, I woke at six-thirty every morning to separate their smelly socks and dirty underwear, wash them, dry them, and iron them.

One time, I accidentally shrank Mason's wool sweater. He pointed at my nose and scolded me for half an hour while Linda backed him up, saying I couldn't even handle a little thing properly.

I replied coldly, "I've washed and dried my own clothes. As for yours, they're not within my obligations.

"If you're too lazy to do it yourselves and need me to provide laundry and common-area cleaning services, fine. The current market price for hourly housekeeping is sixty dollars an hour.

"Since this is an urgent add-on order, laundry plus ironing is one hundred twenty. No credit. Pay first, work later."

Linda's eyes widened as she stared at the fee chart as though she'd seen a monster.

"One hundred twenty? Are you robbing us?" She tore up the paper. "Gabriel Cole, are you sick? You've lost all shame over this tiny amount of money?"

"Can shame be eaten?" I scoffed. "You two freeloaded off months of my unpaid labor. I didn't see either of you feeling ashamed then. If you don't have money, wash your own clothes. Stop blocking my way."

With that, I picked up my car keys, put on my suit jacket, and left without looking back.

Behind me came Linda's powerless cursing and Mason stomping anxiously.

"Mom! I'm going to be late! What about my uniform?"

"Wear it dirty! I don't have clothes either!"

Listening to the argument behind the security door, I pressed the elevator button in a wonderful mood.

That afternoon at work, I'd just finished handling a report when my phone rang.