“I made a spreadsheet of the damages, of all you owe me in the aftermath of your emergency,” I wrote. Add in “mental health,” my mom said. “It was a ‘mental health emergency,’ and that way he won’t forward your note.” “There’s no faster way to make sure he doesn’t write you a check,” my dad said. As if anyone writes checks anymore. Sometimes it helps to have lawyers as parents. But you do write checks, every month for the rent-controlled apartment we shared, until, during your episode, which you’ll die pretending never happened, or worse, didn’t matter (see: “who cares, we made a great show, and on the show must always go!”), you forced me out. To the list of items for which I seek reimbursement—AC unit (freshly installed), bookcases (plus assembly, plus mounting), the cat’s urinary blockage surgery (plus labs, plus gabapentin and buprenorphine, plus trial-and-erroring every brand of urinary diet food), June rent (while also paying for a rush job on movers, while also paying for last-minute storage space)—I want to add: abandoning me and the cat during his crisis (see: my abandonment issues), going on our anniversary trip alone while I opioid-shot him back to health (plus, of course, all else care requires), casually pied-pipering me through my “childbearing years” and then making dating profiles the day you left (see: my trust issues), refusing to break up with me through a real conversation (or any conversation) and instead telling mutual friends I’d been the one to end things—cowardliness, I guess, is the charge. But oh! The promises. If only I could charge you for every broken promise (see: naïve belief in the possibility of unbroken promises in an already broken world). They worked on me once—promises of a baby, promises of a father-daughter dance before mine departs this world. Actually, though he thought contacting you wasn’t worth it, my dad is the one who made the spreadsheet of all you owe me—maybe that in itself is a kind of father-daughter dance.