A dimly lit basement. Carl, 37, sits on a sagging couch, surrounded by comic book stacks and a half-eaten pizza. His dad, Frank, in a cardigan, sits across from him, holding a mug of decaf. Frank speaks in a calm, measured tone, with just a hint of exasperation, à la Bob Newhart.

Frank: So, Carl, I was thinking… maybe it’s time we talk about your, uh, situation. You know, living here… in your mother’s basement… at 37. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Perfectly fine. Lots of people live in basements. I read somewhere it’s trending.

Carl: (not looking up from his comic) Yeah, Dad. It’s cozy. Free Wi-Fi. Mom makes meatloaf on Thursdays.

Frank: Right, right. Meatloaf. That’s… that’s a draw. But, uh, I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t, say, dated in a while. Or ever. Not that I’m counting. And, well, your siblings—your homeschooled siblings—they’ve been, uh, saying some things. About me. About the family.

Carl: (sighs, flips a page) Oh, here we go. What’s it this time? Did I steal their crayons in ’94? Or did you burn down the treehouse with your “bad vibes”?

Frank: (adjusts glasses, deadpan) Well, Carl, it’s worse than that. Your sister Brenda—she’s convinced I sabotaged her Etsy shop by not forwarding her chain emails in 2003. And your brother Tim? He says I ruined his life by not buying him that Tamagotchi. Apparently, it’s why he’s living in a van down by the river. Or, you know, the cul-de-sac.

Carl: (shrugs) Sounds about right. They’re nuts, Dad. Always have been. Remember when Lisa said you hid her pet hamster because you were jealous of its “spiritual aura”?

Frank: (nods slowly) Oh, yes. I was very threatened by Mr. Whiskers’ enlightenment. But here’s the thing, Carl. They all say it’s my fault. Every single thing. Brenda’s failed kombucha business? My fault. Tim’s van life? My fault. Lisa’s Etsy shop selling yarn art that looks like roadkill? Somehow, also my fault. But your mother—your mother, who decided homeschooling meant teaching you all to knit and distrust the postal service—she’s a saint. Untouchable. Never a word against her.

Carl: (snorts) Yeah, well, Mom’s got a way of dodging the blame. Like when she divorced you and said it was because you didn’t appreciate her interpretive dance phase. Meanwhile, she’s upstairs right now, teaching her new boyfriend how to make artisanal soap.

Frank: (pauses, sips coffee) Interpretive dance. Right. I should’ve been more supportive of her “Ode to a Casserole” routine. But, Carl, here’s the kicker: she divorced me, tore the family apart, and somehow, I’m the villain. I’m the one who “ruined everything.” Meanwhile, your siblings are out there accusing me of things that never happened. Like the time Brenda swore I swapped her gluten-free flour with sawdust. Sawdust, Carl. I don’t even own a saw.

Carl: (finally looks up) Yeah, they’re unhinged. Last week, Tim texted me saying you hacked his MySpace in 2007 to make him look “uncool.” Like, who has the time? But Mom? She’s got them all convinced she’s the victim. She’s up there crying about how you “stifled her creativity,” while she’s got us all eating kale smoothies and reciting her poetry.

Frank: (leans back, deadpan) Oh, the poetry. I still wake up in a cold sweat hearing, “Ode to a Compost Heap.” But, Carl, you seem… I don’t know, grounded? You’re not out there accusing me of sabotaging your Pokémon card collection. You’re just… here. In the basement. No girlfriend, no plans for a family, just… you and Spider-Man.

Carl: (shrugs) What can I say, Dad? I’m living the dream. No drama, no accusations. Just me, Mom’s meatloaf, and the occasional Dungeons & Dragons session with the guys from the comic shop. Why mess with perfection?

Frank: (stares, blinks) Perfection. Right. Well, Carl, if you ever decide to, you know, move out, maybe meet someone, start a life… just know your old man’s rooting for you. And if your siblings start blaming me for, say, the moon landing being fake, do me a favor and set ‘em straight.

Carl: (grins faintly) No promises, Dad. But if Brenda tries to pin her next failed crystal-healing business on you, I’ll at least tell her to chill.

Frank: (stands, adjusts cardigan) That’s all I ask, son. That’s all I ask.

Fade out as Frank shuffles upstairs, muttering about kale smoothies. Carl flips another comic page, unfazed.

End.