I tapped into the account connected to Parker Strategic Holdings LLC—my umbrella company, the one my father used to call my “little side project” back when I was still naïve enough to believe he didn’t understand money unless it was his.
The numbers were familiar. The vendor names were familiar. The autopay schedules were familiar.
I clicked the first payment.
The gourmet catering contract. The one my mother insisted on because “people expect a certain level at our events,” as if people were owed lavishness simply because my mother wanted to be admired.
Cancel.
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