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.”
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.
