Never Lend Your Mother Your Amex

Or maybe do?

I don’t know your circumstances.

But definitely don’t lend my mother your Amex.
That’s for damn sure.

She called me crying.
Sobbing.
That’s how she’d get me.
Guilt by way of performance.

“They’re going to turn our power off.”

“I can’t help,” I said. “I’m barely making rent.”

“You can always move back home.”

“Uh, no I can’t.
You’ve said that many times.”

“No—I’ve said your girlfriend can’t come here.”

“Right. Same thing.”

If I’d had the words then, I would have said this:

Moving ‘home’ would mean losing all agency.
There’s no ‘me’ in that house—only compliance.

More sobbing.

“Your brothers will starve to death.
We can’t afford groceries either.
Your dad doesn’t send support.
Please?”

More. Sobbing.

I broke.
I always broke.

“How much is it?”

“It’s about $500.”

“Okay, what’s the account number?
Who do I call?”

“Can you just give me your card number?”

“No.”

More sobbing.

Eventually, I did.

I could cover $500.

I made it very clear—I didn’t have extra.
I needed to eat, too.
And That Damn Car was literally eating my lunch.

“I have to pay it off at the end of the month, Mom.
It’s not a credit card.”

“I’m only going to pay the electric bill, I promise.”

“Okay.”

Yep. She lied.

My bill that month?

Twenty. Fucking. Thousand. Dollars.

I blinked.
Just stared at the statement.

I was making—what—$27,000 a year?

Small mom-and-pop ISP.
We hadn’t even landed our biggest client yet.
I was still building out the POPs, negotiating DSL access with the ILEC.
Still laying cable by hand.

And I just blinked.

Why did my mother hate me?