My daughter paid $2,200 a month to stay in her own room. Then one day, my pregnant sister said, “We’re taking it for the baby.” My mother just sipped her coffee and said, “Be grateful we let her stay at all.” We moved out that night. Now they’re the ones desperate.
My daughter paid $2,200 a month to stay in her own room. Then one day, my pregnant sister said, “We’re taking it for the baby.” My mother just sipped her coffee and said, “Be grateful we let her stay at all.” We moved out that night. Now they’re the ones desperate.
My sister made the announcement like she was unveiling a surprise party.
“We’re making your daughter’s room the new nursery,” Amanda said cheerfully, spreading paint swatches across my mother’s dining table. Soft pastels. Sage green. Cream. “Since the baby’s coming in four months, we need to start early.”
My daughter, Emily, sat on the couch behind her, knees pulled to her chest. She was seventeen. Quiet. Watching everything.
I stared at Amanda, then at my mother, Linda, waiting for someone to laugh. No one did.
“And where is Emily supposed to go?” I asked.
Mom didn’t even look up from her coffee. She shrugged. “The basement’s free.”
The basement.
A concrete room with no door, one tiny window near the ceiling, exposed pipes, and a constant damp smell. We used it for storage. Holiday decorations. Old furniture. Not a bedroom. Not even close.
“Mom,” I said carefully, “Emily is paying to live here.”
That part always made people uncomfortable. My mother insisted Emily contribute once she turned sixteen. “Life lessons,” she called it. Emily worked part-time at a bookstore and paid $2,200 a month in what Mom labeled “household fees.” Rent, utilities, groceries—despite Emily rarely eating at home.
Linda waved her hand. “That money helps everyone. Especially Amanda. Babies are expensive.”
Amanda smiled without guilt, one hand resting on her pregnant belly. She wore a loose cream sweater, maternity jeans, expensive sneakers. She hadn’t paid a dime since moving back home.
Emily finally spoke. Her voice was small. “I can move my things… if you need the room.”
That did it.
“No,” I said. “You’re not moving into a basement.”
Mom sighed, annoyed now. “You’re being dramatic. It’s temporary. She should be grateful she has a roof at all.”
I looked at my daughter—my child who worked, paid, stayed quiet, never complained—and something hardened in my chest.
“Pack your things,” I told Emily. “We’re leaving.”
Amanda laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
I was.
We packed that night. Two suitcases. Her books. Her clothes. The lamp she loved. I transferred Emily’s savings into my account so Mom couldn’t touch it. By morning, we were gone.
I blocked their numbers.
Three weeks later, my mother started calling from different phones.
Crying.
Panicking.
Begging us to come back..
