“Must be nice,” I muttered, watching my mom’s Facebook update from a Swiss Alps resort. Meanwhile, I was eating ramen for the third night in a row.
When I confronted her, I expected guilt. What I got was tough love.
“Let me see your bank statements,” she said, pulling out her reading glasses. For three hours, we combed through every Uber Eats order and impulse purchase. The truth hurt: I wasn’t poor—I was irresponsible.
Now, when I see her travel photos, I don’t see selfishness. I see a woman who worked 50 years for this moment—and loved me enough to teach me how to create my own.
