“So you don’t want to help?” he asked sharply.
“I want to be respected,” I replied. “Helping is a choice, not an obligation under shouts and ultimatums.”
He got up from the table and paced around the kitchen.
“You’re putting me between the two of you,” he snapped.
“No,” I shook my head. “You’re the one who put me under her thumb a long time ago.”
Silence again. This time it was different: heavy, tense, filled with unspoken words. I suddenly realized it wasn’t about the money. The money was just an excuse. The real question was whose side he was on, and whether he was willing to see me as a separate person, not just an appendage to his mother.
“I’m not against helping,” I said more calmly. “But no more intrusions, no more discussions about my income behind my back. If it happens again, I will draw my own conclusions.”
He looked at me in surprise, as if only now hearing the seriousness in my voice.
“You’re threatening me.”
“I’m setting boundaries,” I replied.
He said nothing. Just walked out of the kitchen. And I remained sitting there, understanding that this scene was only the beginning. And the next step would show what was more important to him: his usual comfort or respect for the woman he lives with…
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