My 22-Year-Old
My son is Michael. He had just turned 22 last month, and I thought we had passed the turbulent teenage years. Little did I know, a storm was brewing right under my nose. While I was preparing lunch in the kitchen, Michael stormed in, his face twisted with frustration. “Mom, we need to talk,” he said, his tone unusually serious. I turned to him and said, “Sure, what’s on your mind, honey?” He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I need a car.” I paused, taken aback. “A car? What happened to your part-time job? You were saving up for one.” Michael let out an exasperated sigh. “I know, but it’s taking forever to save up, and I really need it now.” I frowned, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. “Michael, cars are expensive. You know that. Besides, you have a job, you can save up a bit more and—” Impatient, he cut me off, “No, Mom, I can’t wait anymore. All my friends have cars, and I’m tired of depending on you for rides or taking the bus. I need my freedom.” I felt frustrated, saying “Michael, I understand, but we can’t just afford to buy you a car out of the blue. It’s not that simple.” He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “Well, maybe I’ll just go live with Dad then. He’ll buy me a car.” His words hit me like a ton of bricks. David, my ex-husband, always tried to buy Michael’s affection instead of being a responsible parent. I couldn’t believe Michael would even suggest such a thing. “Michael, you can’t just threaten to leave because you’re not getting what you want,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Why not? Dad would be happy to have me. He always spoils me,” he retorted, his tone defiant. I took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts, “This isn’t about your dad. It’s about responsibility. You’re an adult now, and part of being an adult is making responsible decisions.”