My son was just 22 when his girlfriend moved into our house. I tried to keep an open mind, but as the bills grew and the grocery cart filled faster than usual, I found myself feeling more like a landlord than a mother.
One evening, with my patience stretched thin, I finally said what had been weighing on me: “If she’s going to live here, she has to contribute.”
My son paused, looked me squarely in the eye, and replied softly: “Mom… didn’t she tell you she has nowhere else to go?”
I froze. The dish towel slipped from my hand, water dripping from the pan I’d been drying. My heart sank as the weight of his words sank in.
A Truth I Hadn’t Seen
I replayed the last few weeks in my mind. She always seemed grateful—for leftovers, for blankets, for even the smallest kindness. I had assumed it was just good manners. It never occurred to me that it was gratitude born of need.
That night, I knocked gently on their bedroom door. She opened it with wide eyes, bracing herself as if she expected bad news.
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