"Do we have any more parmesan cheese?" My dad asks, eating a mouthful of his food. I nod.
Silence fills the room. The only thing I can hear is his furious chewing and the buzzing of our old refrigerator. He swallows his food and looks at me intently. Of course he's not going to get the cheese himself. He expects me to do it.
"It's in the pantry." I say, leaning back on my chair.
He stares at me incredulously. It's his kitchen and I'm his daughter. I'm not supposed to act like his servant even though I do most of the time. The problem with him is that he's lazier than a teenager on Sunday night when they realize they've got to do their homework. I bet he doesn't even remember where the pantry is.
"I'll get it." He mutters, pushing his chair back and dragging his feet to the counter. He looks around the kitchen until his eyes pause on a cabinet over the stove. There's a 'bingo' expression on his face. Too bad that's not it.
"That's not the pantry." I say but he ignores me.
He reaches for the door handle and pulls, revealing a stack of empty Tupperware containers and plastic plates and cups. It's incredible how he doesn't know his way around his own kitchen, in his own apartment where he's lived for the past five years. It's a miracle he even has me, I can't believe how he would survive without me.
"Oh," He says, closing the door.
I roll my eyes. "It's in between the microwave and the fridge?" I say, but it comes out as a question. He walks over to it and pulls it open. I know exactly what's next. He doesn't know where the parmesan is.
"Green, cylindrical container which reads 'parmesan cheese' on the front, Dad." I mutter, turning back to my food. It's cold already. I hear the pantry door slam shut.
"You could have told me." He scoffs as he sits down.
I drop my fork onto my plate. "I did tell you! You're just too busy working on your million page novel to take any interest on anything besides it."
We have this argument almost every night but I can't seem to get a little sense onto his empty head. He just doesn't understand that he has a daughter he needs to take care of. He treats his novel like his wife or something.
He just continues eating without replying. I know he realized he's wrong. He's just too stubborn to admit it.
I stare down into my plate of cold spaghetti as I hear my dad start to ramble about how he won't be able to finish his novel before the set date. He seems so stressed out, so angered, but I honestly don't really care. He's always complaining about stuff but all he does is pay the bills and lock himself in his room. I've got bigger responsibilities than him.
His fork clatters against the plate as he grabs forkfuls of his food and stuffs it into his mouth. "I swore I was gonna finish it," he talks with his mouth full. "But I guess I just had other things to do."
"You don't do anything. All you do is write that novel of yours." I snap.
"Audrey Helena," he says as if I was a five year old kid. "Eat your food." He wipes his mouth with a napkin and throws it onto the table.
I shake my head. It's honestly not worth fighting with him. I always end up winning. I decide I've had enough of this nasty spaghetti I managed to cook in only fifteen minutes and push my chair back. I grab my plate and glass of water and put them in the sink.
"Dad, will you please wash the dishes? You promised you would." I earn a groan in response as I exit the kitchen. I grab my bag from the foyer and I'm out the door before he can protest.
