“We raised you, and now it’s your turn to pay us back,” Mom declared, her eyes locked onto mine with an almost theatrical intensity.
“Yes, Ania, from now on, you’re our breadwinner.”
Something inside me snapped.
“Mom, what debt are you talking about?” I kept my expression neutral, but her dramatic speech was almost laughable.
“Well, we fed you, clothed you, gave you an education…”
“I was on a scholarship! What’s next? Are you going to add diapers and baby clothes to my so-called ‘debt’?” A wave of irritation washed over me.
“I just might! After all, we need something to live on!”
“Then get a job.”
It was the most obvious solution, yet the moment I said the word “work,” Mom’s eyes widened in horror, her lips quivered, and tears welled up.
“Me? Work? What nonsense! I devoted my whole life to you! And at forty, I shouldn’t have to start looking for a job.”
I almost laughed. Mom had turned forty-five last year. And in all those years, she hadn’t worked a single day. She married at eighteen, had my brother soon after, then me a year later. Dad was the one who provided for the family. We were raised by nannies and grandmothers while Mom enjoyed the luxury of self-care—salons, shopping, vacations abroad, fitness, yoga, personal coaches—all under the guise of “self-development.”
Then Dad’s business collapsed, forcing him to find a regular job. His employers initially praised his hard work, but the moment he got sick, they discarded him like yesterday’s news. His new job barely paid enough, but at least he had some time to rest.
By then, I had finished my studies, landed a great job, and was living independently. Both grandmothers had passed early, leaving their apartments to my brother, Max, and me. He had since married, had his third child, sold his grandmother’s apartment, and bought a bigger one. Now, he was struggling to keep up with mortgage payments.
“Mom, maybe it’s time to cut back on expenses?” I suggested, eyeing the manicurist who came to our house every week. Mom’s self-care always took priority.
“What expenses? I don’t waste money on anything unnecessary!”
“How can you say that? Yesterday you bought two new dresses, today the manicurist is here, tomorrow it’s the massage therapist, and the day after that, the cosmetologist. And all of them charge double for home visits.”
I was ready to lay out financial calculations to prove that the biggest strain on the family’s budget was, in fact, her. But Mom widened her eyes again, as if I had just spoken blasphemy.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a woman—I have to look good. Otherwise, your father won’t be pleased when he comes home.”
“And what about me? Have you ever considered my needs?” My long-standing resentment toward her boiled up, threatening to spill over. “Dad’s money is running out, yet you continue living lavishly. I’m a woman too, and I don’t want to wear myself out supporting your whims. I want to take care of myself!”
Mom gave me a sharp, regal stare—the kind that had made me feel small and insignificant for years. Meanwhile, I was practically working myself to the bone, juggling two high-pressure projects that demanded my availability around the clock, plus freelance translation and tutoring.
“Ania, let’s not argue. Until your father finds a proper job, you’re responsible for the family’s finances. So either cut your own expenses or find another side job.”
“No, Mom,” I said firmly. “I’m not sacrificing my life for you.”
“How can you not? What about your vacations every six months? Lunches at cafes? And taxis—stop taking those! You don’t need a new jacket and boots either; wear the old ones.”
“Wow, Mom,” I nearly shouted, struggling to keep my composure. Instead, I grabbed my coat and walked out of my parents’ house. A walk in the park would help me clear my head.
Old wounds resurfaced. As a child, Mom dressed me like a doll, but once I hit adolescence, I looked like a ragged scarecrow. She always picked out my clothes, deliberately buying the wrong sizes—either too big or too small.
“If it’s too tight, well, you’ve gained weight,” she’d say with distaste. If it was oversized: “It’s fine, you’ll grow into it.”
One summer before camp, I begged, “Mom, can I pick my own clothes?”
“I know what you’d choose—utter lack of taste. Here, take these.”
She handed me a bag of second-hand clothes. Most were too large, some were barely wearable.
“I’m not wearing this,” I said, tears of humiliation stinging my eyes.
“Then you’re not going.”
Our family wasn’t poor. Mom spared no expense on herself, but when it came to me, extreme frugality kicked in. Years later, I realized she was a textbook narcissist who saw me as a rival rather than a daughter.
Dad, on the other hand, was my safe haven.
“You’re so smart and beautiful, my pride!” he’d tell me.
Mom would scoff, “She had three B’s this quarter.”
“But the rest are A’s!” Dad would counter. “Maxim has three B’s and the rest are C’s. Why don’t you scold him?”
“He’s a man. Men don’t need good grades,” Mom would dismissively reply. Max was always her favorite.
He got into university on a scholarship but dropped out after three semesters, stayed home for months, then enrolled elsewhere—only to drop out again. Instead of finding a job, he dabbled in cryptocurrency schemes.
“Ania, I think you should help your brother,” Mom announced one day.
“How?”
“He enrolled in a foreign language program. You’ll do his coursework.”
“What, am I renting out my brain now?” I laughed.
“Don’t be rude! You do work for others, but can’t help your own brother?”
“Is he paying?”
“How mercenary! You’d sell your own family for money!”
And so, Max graduated thanks to me. I hoped that one day, Mom would appreciate me. But no, she continued to dote on him.
Now, with Dad unemployed, they both turned to me for financial support. When I refused, Mom called Max. An hour later, he rang me, his tone eerily similar to hers.
“Ania, have a conscience! We’re family!”
“Yes, Max, we are.”
“You understand that while Dad is out of work, you have to help.”
“No, Max. For three years, I’ve supported you and Mom. I need a break. Maybe you should pay for my vacation?”
“What? Why should I pay for your whims?” he snapped.
“Oh? And I’m supposed to pay for yours? I wrote your university papers, covered your mortgage when Dad got fired, and bought strollers and cribs for your kids.”
Max was speechless. Then, in a tragic voice, he accused, “You’re abandoning your family in hard times.”
“No, Max. I’m just done being your bank.”
The next call came from Mom.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to you, Ania.”
“I finally set boundaries, Mom.”
“You’re heartless! You told me to get a job! You even told Max to find a side job, knowing he has children!”
“Yes. And you need to understand how money is earned.”
“Ungrateful!” Mom screeched.
I hung up.
Then, my phone lit up with another call: Dad.
“Daughter, I don’t feel well,” he said weakly.
I rushed to the hospital. He had been there for two weeks—and neither Mom nor Max had visited. They only called once—to ask for his credit card PIN.
That was it. I took Dad on vacation to the ocean. He finally relaxed, smiled, lived.
And when we returned? He filed for divorce.
Mom and Max were furious, but I no longer cared. I was done being their provider. Finally, I was free.