I watched the gravy congeal on my plate tonight while my father explained, for the third time in an hour, why "freelance digital design" isn't a strategy for long-term survival. He uses that word—survival—like we're still roaming the tundra instead of sitting in a climate-controlled dining room with gold-rimmed china. It’s a fascinating case of generational projection. He sees my life as a series of high-risk errors because it doesn't involve a physical inventory or a pension plan. I just sat there, tracing the pattern on the porcelain with my eyes, trying to dissociate enough so I wouldn't start laughing at the sheer absurdity of his collar being so tight it turned his neck purple. "You have a family now, Michael," he said, like I’d forgotten the two-year-old currently screaming in the other room. "You can't afford to be a dreamer."