I was a single mom and tried my best. A few years ago my son asked to use my garage for his startup. I agreed.
But recently he asked for $50,000 and I told him I couldn’t help. He demanded I sell my house. I refused.
Then my sister told me that maybe I had spoiled him too much. Her words stung more than I expected. I hung up the phone and just sat at the kitchen table, staring at the peeling paint on the wall.
I’ve never claimed to be perfect. I just tried to give my son, Radu, what I never had. His father left when Radu was six.
After that, it was just the two of us and a lot of late-night shifts. When he asked to use the garage for his tech idea, I was proud. He was only twenty-three and full of fire.
He said he wanted to build custom smart home systems for older houses. I didn’t really understand it, but I understood passion. So I cleaned out my old boxes and moved my late husband’s tools to the shed.
That garage became his world. At first, it was exciting. He’d come in smelling like solder and coffee, talking about clients and prototypes.
I would make him sandwiches and listen, even when I barely followed. I loved seeing him believe in himself. The first year was rough.
He barely made any money. But he kept going. I admired that.
Then came the second year. He landed a few contracts and started dressing sharper. He stopped eating dinner with me as often.
He said he was busy networking. I told myself that was normal. Kids grow up.
Then, out of nowhere, he asked for $50,000. He said it was to “scale operations.”
I laughed at first, thinking he was joking. I work at a pharmacy; I don’t have that kind of money.
When I said I couldn’t help, his face changed. It was like a door slammed shut between us. He told me I was holding him back.
He said real parents invest in their children. That hurt. I’ve invested my whole life in him.
When he demanded I sell my house, I felt something break inside. This house is the only stability I’ve ever known. I refused, calmly at first.
Then more firmly. He stormed out and didn’t come home that night. I barely slept.
The next morning, my sister called. She said Radu had gone to her place. She repeated what she told me before: maybe I had protected him too much from struggle.
Maybe he didn’t understand money. I didn’t want to hear that. But a small voice inside me wondered if she was right.
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