[Scene: A modest kitchen. Morning light pours through the window. A family of three sits around a small wooden table, half-eaten plates of eggs, toast, and fruit in front of them. The mood is quiet, almost too quiet.]
Mom: (sipping coffee, gently)
Did you sleep okay, honey?
Daughter: (scrolling on her phone, barely looking up)
Yeah. Late night, that’s all.
Dad: (sets his fork down, watching her)
Another late night?
Daughter: (shrugs)
I’m just out. Friends, stuff. You know.
Mom:
We used to know. Now it’s like… you breeze in, breeze out. We see you at breakfast — maybe — and that’s it.
Daughter: (quiet, still looking at her phone)
I’m just busy.
Dad: (firm but calm)
We’re not trying to come at you, but we need to talk about a few things.
Daughter: (puts phone down slowly)
Like what?
Mom: (softly)
Like your spending, for one. Your card alerts keep popping up on our phones. Clothes, food delivery, random stuff — every day.
Dad:
You’re burning through money like nothing matters, and we’re worried. Not just about the money… but what it means.
Daughter: (defensive)
It’s my life. I’m not doing anything wrong.
Mom:
No one’s saying you are. But you’re not… doing anything with us either. You’re always gone, and when you are home, it’s like you’re not really here.
[A pause. The daughter looks away, suddenly unsure. The silence feels heavy.]
Dad: (quieter now)
Look, we miss you.
Not the version of you that’s spending all our money…
We miss the version who used to sit here and actually talk to us. Laugh with us. Share life with us.
Now it’s like… we’re just your background noise.
Daughter: (after a moment, softly)
I didn’t realize it felt like that…
Mom: (reaching across the table)
We just want to feel like a family again.
It’s not about the money.
It’s about you.
[The daughter nods slowly, eyes beginning to sting. She looks at both of them and picks up her fork again, a little more present than before.]
Daughter:
Okay.
Let’s… start with breakfast.
