At Dinner, My Son Shouted: “Either You Give My Wife Your Room Or Start Packing!”

“If you want to have a party, fine, but you’re paying for it.”

Jessica’s mouth fell open, stunned.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting any way.”

I replied calmly.

“I’m just telling you that if you want to host something, you host it with your money.”

She huffed and stormed out of the kitchen, yelling.

“Mark! Your mother is being impossible!”

Mark came down the stairs looking annoyed.

“What is it now?”

“Your mother says she won’t pay for the food for the get-together on Saturday.”

Jessica said, crossing her arms. Mark looked at me as if I were a spoiled child.

“Mom, don’t be difficult. It’s just one meal.”

“Exactly,”

I said.

“It’s just one meal which you two can pay for.”

“And what has gotten into you lately?”

Mark asked, raising his voice.

“You’ve been weird since last week. You talk back, you don’t help. It’s like you’re annoyed that we’re here.”

“I’m not annoyed that you’re here.”

I said, looking him straight in the eye.

“I’m annoyed that you treat me like I work for you.”

“Nobody is treating you like that!”

Jessica said.

“No?”

I asked.

“Then what do you call what happened at dinner last week? What do you call shouting at me to pack my bags if I don’t give you my room?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Mark looked away; Jessica pressed her lips together.

“You were exaggerating, Mom.”

Mark finally said.

“I didn’t shout at you. I just asked you to be reasonable.”

“You asked me to be reasonable,”

I repeated slowly.

“by shouting at me in front of everyone.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

Jessica chimed in with a soft voice, the one she used when she wanted to seem like the peacemaker.

“We were all stressed. Mark didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But he did say it like that,”

I replied.

“And you two ended up with my room, so I guess the misunderstanding worked out well for you.”

Mark snorted.

“You know what? I’m not arguing about this. If you don’t want to help with the food, don’t help. We’ll figure it out.”

“Perfect.”

I said and went back to what I was doing. They went back up to the room muttering to each other. I heard fragments.

“She’s unbearable.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“She never used to be like this.”

They were right. I never used to be like this. I used to say yes to everything. I used to apologize for things that weren’t my fault. I used to live to please them.

The Invisible Transition

That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, I went down to the living room and sat on the sofa with my phone. I opened my chat with Sharon and wrote.

“Every day I spend here makes me realize how much time I wasted being the person they wanted me to be.”

She replied immediately, despite the hour.

“But you’re not wasting time anymore. Now you’re taking it back.”

I smiled in the darkness of the living room. The next day, the real estate agent called me.

“Miss Vance, I have good news. I already have three people interested in seeing your house. Can we schedule viewings for this week?”

“Yes,”

I replied.

“but I need them to be at specific times between 10:00 in the morning and 2:00 in the afternoon when my son isn’t here.”

The agent didn’t ask any questions; he just said.

“Perfect. I’ll arrange everything and confirm with you.”

I hung up and stared at the phone. This was happening; it was really happening. On Wednesday, the first couple came to see the house.

Mark and Jessica had gone out to run some errands. I greeted the people, the potential buyers, at the door. They were young, recently married, with that excitement in their eyes that comes from looking for your first home.

I showed them every room: the large kitchen, the living room with good light, the small but well-kept backyard. They asked questions, took pictures, measured spaces. At the end, at the door, they told me.

“It’s beautiful, ma’am. We’re going to think about it and let you know.”

Two other viewings came that week, all while Mark wasn’t there. All ended with the same phrase: “We’ll think about it.” On Friday, Susan called me.

“Eleanor, the documents are ready. Can you come in and sign them?”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

I said. On Saturday morning, while Mark and Jessica were still asleep, I left the house and drove to Susan’s office. She greeted me with fresh coffee and a thick folder full of papers.

“This is your updated will,”

she said, pointing to the first document.

“Emily receives 60% of your assets. Mark receives 40%. And here is the clause specifying that if anyone tries to contest the will, they automatically forfeit their share.”

I signed every page, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief because I was protecting what was mine; sadness because I had to protect myself from my own son.

“How do you feel?”

Susan asked when I finished signing.

“Like I’m finally waking up.”

I replied.

The Entitlement Confrontation

That afternoon, when I returned to the house, Mark and Jessica were in the living room arguing in low voices. When they saw me walk in, they immediately fell silent.

“Where were you?”

Mark asked.

“Out.”

I replied without giving details.

“Out where?”

“Taking care of things.”

He looked at me suspiciously but didn’t press. Jessica, however, had that expression she wore when she was planning something.

“Eleanor,”

she said sweetly.

“we need to talk to you about something important.”

I sat in the armchair across from them.

“About what?”

“Mark and I are being evicted from our apartment,”

Jessica said directly.

“The owner wants to sell it and we have to be out in two weeks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,”

I said.

“Are you already looking for another place?”

“Well,”

Mark said.

“we were thinking we could stay here for a while. After all, there’s enough space here.”

“Here?”

I repeated.

“Yes,”

Jessica said.

“it wouldn’t be forever. Just until we find something. A few months maybe.”

I looked her in the eyes, then I looked at Mark. They were both looking at me with that mixture of expectation and demand disguised as need.

“No.”

I said simply.

“What?”

Mark asked.

“No, you can’t stay here.”

“Mom,”

Mark said, his voice rising.

“we’re your family. Are you going to throw us out on the street?”

“I’m not throwing you out on the street,”

I replied calmly.

“I’m letting you solve your problems like the adults you are.”

Mark shot to his feet.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! What is wrong with you, Mom? Since when are you so selfish?”

“Selfish?”

I repeated the word slowly, letting it hang in the air.

“And what else do you want me to call it?”

he said, throwing his hands up.

“You have this huge house all to yourself and you won’t help your own son!”

“This house isn’t huge, Mark. It has three bedrooms. One is mine, which you are now occupying. Another is the guest room where I’m sleeping now. And the third is my office where I work.”

“Then turn the office into a bedroom!”

Jessica said.

“It’s not that hard.”

I stared at her.

“My office is where I earn the money that pays for this house. Where do you suggest I work? In the kitchen?”

“Don’t be dramatic,”

Mark said.

“You’re always exaggerating.”

I took a deep breath.