Since my son Michael turned 22 last month, I had assumed that our difficult teenage years were behind us. I had no idea that a storm was building directly beneath my nose.
I was in the kitchen, preparing lunch when Michael stormed in, his face twisted with frustration.
“We need to talk, Mom,” he remarked in an uncharacteristically serious tone.
I looked up at him and heard the strain in his voice. Indeed, honey, what’s on your mind?
Arms folded, he leaned against the counter. “A car is what I need.”
I hesitated, surprised. “A vehicle? How did your part-time work go? You were putting money aside for one.”
Michael sighed with exasperation. “I know, but I really need it now, and it’s taking forever to save up.”
I scowled and used a kitchen towel to wipe my hands. “Cars are pricey, Michael. You are aware of that. Additionally, since you work, you can save a little bit more money and—”
He interrupted me, saying, “No, Mom, I can’t wait anymore,” in an irritated tone. I’m sick and tired of relying on you for rides or the bus because all of my pals own vehicles. I must have my independence.
“Michael, I understand, but we can’t just afford to buy you a car out of the blue,” I said, feeling my frustration rising. It’s not really that easy.
With a clinched jaw, he narrowed his eyes. “Well, then I might just move in with Dad.” I’ll get an automobile from him.
His words hit me like a ton of bricks.
Rather than being a good father, my ex-husband David, always sought to buy Michael’s devotion. I was shocked that Michael would even consider making such a suggestion.
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