I understood the additional credit cards, the cramped apartment in the suburbs, the endless utility bills, the expensive school supplies, and the small favors that for years sustained Kyle and Amanda’s lives while they insisted on calling it independence.
I finally managed to say, “Okay, son. Have a good trip,” and I hung up the phone.
My name is Margaret Thompson, I am sixty eight years old, a widow, and for a long time I made the mistake of believing that being needed was the same as being loved.
Kyle was my only son, and when my husband, Walter, passed away, I clung to the idea that helping my child was the only way to keep our fractured family together.
I never minded waking up at dawn to drive the children to school when Amanda complained about having a rough day, nor did I mind paying the pediatrician when Kyle claimed his bank had frozen his account.
I did not mind cooking extra meals, buying new shoes, covering mounting debts, lending my SUV, signing legal papers, or opening every door for them,