The message from my husband hung on the screen as a short line: “Mom is upset.”
“Why were you like that with her?” I smirked. Not “why did she burst in,” not “why was she yelling,” but “why was I like that?”. I replied dryly: “We’ll talk tonight.”
And I put the phone away so I wouldn’t lose my temper too soon. In the evening, he came home later than usual. I heard the key turn in the lock, him taking off his jacket, and I could tell from his footsteps: this was going to be a difficult conversation. He came into the kitchen, sat down across from me, and started right away, without any preamble:
“Mom said you yelled at her. Did she tell you how she burst in?”
I asked calmly, “Or how she demanded my money?”
He hesitated, averting his gaze.
“Well, she’s just worried. You know she’s having problems right now.”
“And I don’t have problems, I suppose?” I looked him straight in the eye. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”
“What’s the big deal?” He sighed irritably. “I just said you got a bonus. We’re family, what’s there to hide?”
“There it is! That word ‘family’ again!” I felt a familiar weariness rise inside me. “You didn’t just mention the bonus,” I said slowly, “you gave her a reason to come here and make demands. You had no right to discuss my income without me.”
He frowned.
“You’re overreacting. Mom isn’t a stranger.”
“And what am I to you?” I asked quietly.
The question hung in the air between us. He was silent, and that silence was more eloquent than any words.
“I earned this money myself,” I continued. “I had plans. And I’m not going to account for every penny to your mother, or to you…”
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