“If you want to stay here, live in the basement!” Without a word, I moved into my secret apartment and promptly canceled all shared payments. Six months later, they showed up at my door, ready to move in with me. I’m Zoya, and I’m 29 years old.
Two years ago, my life took a turn I never expected. I was living in a rented apartment, working as a software developer, making decent money, and enjoying my independence. Then, my parents called me with that conversation no one wants to have.
“Zoya, we need to talk,” my mom said over the phone, her voice sounding strained, tired. “Can you come over tonight?”
When I got to their house, both my parents were sitting at the kitchen table with papers spread everywhere. Dad looked older than his 58 years, and Mom was wringing her hands like she always did when she was stressed.
“What’s going on?” I asked, sitting down across from them. Dad cleared his throat. “I had to quit my job last month.
The back problems got worse, and I can’t do construction work anymore. I’ve been looking for something else, but nothing pays enough.” My stomach dropped. I knew Dad had been having health issues, but I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten.
“We can’t make the mortgage payments,” Mom continued. “I’m still working at the grocery store, but it’s only part-time. We bring in maybe $1,200 a month now, and the mortgage alone is $1,800.”
That’s when they asked me to move back in and help with the payments.
They didn’t want to lose the house they’d lived in for 20 years. I looked around at the kitchen where I’d eaten breakfast every morning as a kid, at the living room where we’d watched movies together, at the backyard where Dad had taught me to ride a bike. Of course, I said, “I’ll help.”
So, I gave up my apartment and moved back into my childhood bedroom.
It felt weird at first, sleeping in the same room where I’d done homework and had sleepovers with friends, but I set up my computer in the corner, got a good internet connection, and made it work. Most of my job was remote anyway, so it didn’t matter where I lived. The arrangement worked out better than I expected.
I made good money as a developer, around $85,000 a year in salary, but the real money came from bonuses. Every time one of my programs got sold to a big tech company, I got a percentage. Some months, I’d make an extra $10,000 or $15,000 just from those bonuses.
I used my regular salary to cover the mortgage, utilities, groceries, car insurance, and other family expenses. It wasn’t a burden because I was used to living on that amount anyway. But here’s what my family didn’t know: I was putting every single bonus into a separate savings account.
I never told them about the bonus money—not my parents, not my older brother Marcus who lived across town with his wife, Sandra, and their two kids. I loved my family, but I knew what would happen if they found out about my real income: they’d find ways to spend it. Marcus was always asking for money.
“Hey Zoya, can you lend me $500? Tommy needs new soccer cleats!” or “Zoya, Sandra’s mom needs surgery, and we’re short on the medical bills.” I helped when I could from my regular salary, but I kept quiet about the bonuses. In two years, I’d saved up almost $180,000.
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