The house the house was professionally photographed. The open house was scheduled, and the offers started rolling in within days.
Without access to my credit cards and a free place to live, their finances were brutally exposed.
I overheard them arguing in the hallway about rental deposits and credit checks.
Apparently, their savings had mostly been spent on weekend trips and designer clothes.
One evening, I was taping up a box of my favorite books when David lingered in the doorway. He looked exhausted, the arrogance entirely stripped away.
“Mom,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can we talk?”
I continued taping the box.
“Go ahead.”
“We found a place. A two-bedroom apartment,” he muttered, staring at the floor. “It’s not great. The commute is going to be brutal.”
I didn’t offer sympathy.
“I’m sure you’ll adjust.”
He stepped into the room.
“Look, I messed up.”
“Okay.”
“Sarah pushed, and I just went along with it. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m sorry.”
I paused, setting the tape dispenser down.
I looked at my son.
“You didn’t just say things, David. You planned to put me in a home so you could take my house. You treated me like the hired help. An apology because you got caught in your own trap doesn’t erase the intent.”
He swallowed hard.
“So what? You’re just cutting us off completely?”
“I am establishing a boundary,” I clarified. “You are a grown man. It is time you lived like one.”
He stood there for a long moment, waiting for me to cave, waiting for the motherly instinct to rescue him to kick in, but the well was dry.
He finally nodded, turning around and walking out.
Two days later, the moving truck arrived.