At twenty-six, Kayla had quit three jobs, abandoned two training courses, and somehow made every financial emergency my problem.
I’d already covered her phone bill, paid a security deposit, and lent her $4,500 she never returned.
“I’m done,” I said.
Mom struck the counter with her palm.
“You make six figures.”
“That doesn’t make me an ATM.”
“You think you’re better than us because you have some fancy job.”
My so-called “fancy job” involved overseeing operations for a regional property company.
Mom didn’t know I’d recently become chief operating officer.
Even less did she understand that the house we stood in—the one she constantly claimed was hers—hadn’t belonged to her in nearly four years.
After Dad’s death, Mom fell behind on mortgage payments and property taxes. The lender was preparing to foreclose.
I purchased the mortgage through an LLC, settled the overdue taxes, and allowed her to remain under a formal lease costing one dollar annually.
She never examined the documents.
She simply signed where I indicated.
I helped because she was my mother.
I continued because I hoped appreciation would eventually replace her sense of entitlement.
It never happened.
“Pack your things,” she said. “If family means so little to you, you don’t belong here.”
Kayla finally looked up and smirked.
