The Girl Who Brought Us Home

My son was just 22 when his girlfriend moved into our house. I tried to keep an open mind, but as the bills grew and the grocery cart filled faster than usual, I found myself feeling more like a landlord than a mother.

One evening, with my patience stretched thin, I finally said what had been weighing on me: “If she’s going to live here, she has to contribute.”

My son paused, looked me squarely in the eye, and replied softly: “Mom… didn’t she tell you she has nowhere else to go?”

I froze. The dish towel slipped from my hand, water dripping from the pan I’d been drying. My heart sank as the weight of his words sank in.

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