“I expected you to understand I also have a right to my space. To my peace. To my decisions.”
Dion exchanged a glance with Chloe—quick, barely a second, but I saw it. The look couples share when they think they’re dealing with someone difficult, when they need to unify against a shared problem.
In that moment, I was the problem.
Dion sighed, like the conversation had gone on too long.
He rubbed both hands over his face and looked at me with the expression he’d perfected: the patient son tolerating a complicated mother.
“Fine, Mom. I get that you’re upset because we didn’t give you more notice. You’re right about that. But we’re already here. The bags are inside. Chloe’s already unpacked a few things in the guest room.”
His voice turned practical—weaponized.
“What do you want us to do now? Go look for a hotel at six p.m. on a Thursday when I have meetings starting at seven a.m. tomorrow?”
There it was—guilt, not presented as emotion, but as inconveniences I would be causing if I held my ground. As if the fact they’d already started settling in without my permission now obligated me to accept it. As if their lack of planning automatically became my problem to solve.
I looked down the hall.
The guest-room door was slightly ajar. From where I stood, I could see a corner of the bed and clothes already spread across it.
Chloe wasn’t asking permission.
She was claiming territory.
I walked toward the room.
Behind me I heard Dion’s footsteps, then Chloe’s low voice saying something I couldn’t make out.
I pushed the door open fully, and what I saw confirmed everything.
Clothes on the bed. Toiletries lined up on the dresser. Chloe’s travel case open by the mirror. Two pairs of shoes arranged neatly near the wall. A laptop plugged in beside the nightstand.
This wasn’t someone staying a few days.
This was someone settling in for weeks.
I turned to Dion, who stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching me cautiously.
“A week,” I said. “You said.”
He nodded, eyes darting away and back.
“Two at the most. Mom, I told you.”
“And all of this,” I said, gesturing to the spread-out life, “is for two weeks? The laptop. The bath products. Enough clothes for a month?”
Dion shrugged—casual, minimizing.
“Chloe needs to work from here. And obviously we brought what we needed to be comfortable. We weren’t going to live out of a suitcase for two weeks.”
Comfortable.
The word lodged in my skull.
They needed to be comfortable in my home, in my space, using my resources—and I was expected to be understanding.
I left the room and returned to the living room.
Chloe was sitting in my favorite armchair by the window—the one I bought three years ago after saving for months. She scrolled on her phone with the ease of someone who didn’t believe anything could truly touch her.
When she saw me, she offered another small smile.
“Ava, we really will be as little trouble as possible. You won’t even notice we’re here. I work remotely, so I’ll be in the room most of the day. Dion leaves early and comes back late. We can buy our own food if you want, or cook for the three of us—however you prefer.”
However I prefer.
As if she were giving me real choices, and not just presenting variations of a situation I had never accepted in the first place.
I walked up to the armchair and stood over her.
I didn’t speak immediately.
I just looked at her—waiting to see if she understood what I was communicating without words.
She blinked, and her smile slowly faded.
After a few seconds she stood with an awkward movement.
“I’m sorry. Did you want to sit here?”
I didn’t want the chair.
I wanted her to understand that every inch of this condo was mine. That the armchair wasn’t an available seat for whoever needed it. It was where I read in the afternoons, where I drank coffee every morning, where I cried after Serena’s funeral, where I made the decision to leave that exhausting coffee-shop job and finally retire.
Dion walked into the living room then, and the tension must have been visible because he stopped halfway, looking between Chloe and me, gauging how serious this was.
“Mom, can we talk for a minute? Just you and me?”
I nodded.
Maybe a private conversation with my son—without Chloe reinforcing him—could do what this confrontation couldn’t.
We went to the kitchen.
Dion leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and looked at me with an expression that tried to be serious but mostly conveyed impatience.
“All right, Mom. Talk. What is really bothering you?”
His eyes narrowed like he already believed I was being unreasonable.
“Because I feel like there’s something more than just the fact that we didn’t call you beforehand.”
There was more.
Of course there was more.
But how could I explain that the suitcases were only the newest version of an old pattern? How could I tell him this wasn’t about two weeks—it was about decades of being invisible?
“It bothers me, Dion,” I said. “It bothers me that you grew up thinking my life is a resource available when you need me, but not a priority when it comes to basic consideration.”
He frowned, genuinely confused.
“I don’t understand what you mean by that.”
“When was the last time you visited me without needing something from me?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Dion opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again and still said nothing.
He searched his memory for a counterexample.
And the fact it took so long only proved my point.
“I—Mom, I come see you often.”
“You come when you need me to watch your dog because you’re going out of town. You come when Chloe is busy and you need me to hold important documents. You come when you fight with her and need a place to crash for one night. You come when you have car trouble and need me to lend you money for the shop.”
I let the words fall, one after another, like coins dropped into a jar.
“But when was the last time you came just to ask how I was? To spend an afternoon with me? To be interested in my life beyond what I can do for you?”
“That’s not fair, Mom.”
His voice rose; defensiveness bled through every syllable.
“I call you. I send texts. I asked you last week if you wanted to come out to dinner with us.”
“You invited me to dinner because it was Chloe’s birthday and you needed someone else to help pay the bill.”
The truth came out clean.
“You didn’t invite me because you wanted my company. You barely spoke to me all dinner. You spent the whole time arguing about where you were going on vacation next month while I sat there eating my salad in silence.”
Dion’s face shifted.
“I didn’t know you felt that way. Why didn’t you say something at the time?”
“Because I never say anything, Dion.”
The words surprised me with how raw they sounded.
“Because I learned a long time ago that when I speak up—when I say I feel ignored or undervalued—you make me feel like I’m overreacting, like I’m too sensitive, like I should be grateful just to be included.”
I swallowed.
“So I stopped saying things. I stopped expecting. I stopped believing my presence in your life was anything more than functional.”
Dion shook his head, running his hands through his hair.
“This is ridiculous. You’re turning this into something much bigger than it is. We just need to stay here for a few days. We’re not trying to invade your life or make you feel bad. We just need temporary housing help.”
“And it never occurred to you that maybe I have a life, too.”
My voice stayed calm, but my chest felt tight.
“That maybe I had plans for these two weeks. That maybe I enjoy my routine and my privacy and I don’t want to give them up because you decided to renovate your condo without considering alternatives.”
He scoffed.
“What plans, Mom? What do you do all day that’s so important you can’t share your space with your own family?”
There it was.
The question that revealed exactly what he thought of my life.
To Dion, I didn’t do anything important. I had no commitments that mattered. I existed in a state of constant availability, waiting to be needed so I could have purpose.
“I don’t have to justify my days to you, Dion.”
My voice held.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
