Two years earlier, Daniel called me late one evening.
“Mom, we’ve lost our apartment. We have nowhere to go.”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Come home, sweetheart.”
He promised it would only be a few months.
At first, everything seemed wonderful.
Daniel helped around the house. Marissa washed dishes. My grandson Oliver worked beside me in the garden.
But gradually, things changed.
They stopped buying groceries.
Marissa began demanding expensive food.
Daniel used my credit card for supposed emergencies.
I became their unpaid cook, babysitter, housekeeper, and financial safety net.
Eventually, I felt like a visitor in my own home.
Then came that Sunday dinner.
“Honestly, Mom, you’re basically a freeloader around here,” Daniel announced.
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You spend your days gardening while Marissa and I actually work. You could at least help more with Oliver.”
I looked at my grandson.
He was quietly pushing a carrot around his plate, clearly uncomfortable.
