It’s always heartwarming when self-made multimillionaire parents, who contributed to your independence by mastering the art of financial ghosting at age eighteen, suddenly remember family ties exist and expect a hero’s welcome in your rent-controlled shoebox. Boundaries? That’s a word for pedestrian crosswalks and international disputes, not for parents who see your adult life as an annex to their vacation itinerary. The subtlety of their approach is breathtaking: forget «May we stay, dear?»—it’s «We’ll be there, clear some floor space,» as if you’re the world’s saddest Airbnb, and this visit is their God-given dividend for the privilege of technically raising you.

It’s not like they’re short on options. With a net worth that could probably buy the entire building and evict you for having bad taste in futons, they could treat themselves to a five-star suite and a pillow menu that doesn’t include «medical student’s only blanket.» But no, nothing says loving family like cramming two neglectful parents into your 210-square-foot sanctum of existential dread and exam flashcards.

You’ve explained, as tactfully as lifelong emotional survivors are able, that not only is there no sofa bed—there’s barely a bed—but your pleas are batted away like polite suggestions at a board meeting. Given their history of guilt-tripping and creative blackmail, you’re left prepping for a showdown that could require either the world’s most awkward hotel reservation or a restraining order starter pack.

Some grown-up children cut the cord. Others, it seems, have to change the locks.