ike most families, my parents and I fight about money.

“Take a 20,” my dad says as I leave one evening.

”Dad, I’ve got money.”

I guess our fight are different than most kids. My dad's always trying to give me money, and I'm always refusing it. Quick clarification: We are not, nor have we ever been, rich. I actually think that's why my dad and I fight about it so much. As casual as we both pretend to be, we both know the hard-won value of that $20.

“In case of an emergency,” he says, palming me the the bill. This was his line back in high school, before I had four major credit cards and a job that pays more than my mother earns. Back then, the idea of 20 bucks “in case of an emergency” seemed pretty sweet, and even though I still protested—no, Dad, come on, it’s all right—I secretly coveted the money. I knew it meant more Coors Light and Jack in the Box. Now, I’m just embarrassed.

“Dad, I don’t need emergency money,” I say, placing the bill on the counter. Since I moved in almost two months ago, my parents have charged me no rent. They expect little in the way of housework or, really, anything. If I let her, my mother would cook me breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“Just take it,” he says, tucking it in my purse.

“Dammit, Dad, I don’t want it!” I’m kind of yelling now.

My father is stubborn. (Well, so am I.) “Give it to your favorite charity,” he says.

“Fine, I will!” Of course, I don’t. I blow it that night on Stella Artois and sushi. (Maybe we don’t change; maybe we just take on different name brands.)

I understand why my father does this. It’s the same reason I occasionally buy drinks for a table of strangers, the same reason I surprise people with gifts unrelated to any holiday. There are times when I’m not generous—when I’m stingy, or broke—and I like to make up for those times with grand, unexpected gestures. So does my father. The other day he announced that before I drove to New York, he would buy me new tires for my car.

“You don’t need to do that,” I told him.

He shook his head. “I want to.”

“I’ll split it with you,” I said.

“Let me do this for you.” And so, maybe as an experiment, I looked at this from his perspective. And I saw not the fact that I’m 30 years old and living in his guest bedroom—which I honestly think he likes more than resents--but the fact that he sees me sad so often, that I am his only daughter and his youngest child driving off alone to New York, and it is a place so far away, a place where he can no longer palm me a 20 when he simply feels like it.

So I looked him in the eyes. “Thanks,” I said.

He smiled and nodded. And that was the end of it. Thank God.