I thought about the years I’d skipped buying new clothes so he could go on school trips. The nights I pretended I wasn’t hungry so he could have seconds. The times I told him, “Don’t worry about money,” even when I was terrified.
And now, I was something to be ashamed of.
I’m heartbroken in a way I don’t know how to fix.
Part of me wonders if I should quit. Maybe spare him the embarrassment. Maybe spare myself the humiliation.
But I need this job. The stability. The insurance. The relief of not constantly scrambling.
Another part of me wants to sit him down and make him understand what his words did to me. How they cracked something open that may not close the same way again.
And then there’s the quiet voice that says: step back. Let him grow up. Let him sit with the consequences of his own cruelty.
I keep asking myself if I’m being too sensitive.
If this is just a phase.
If pride is more important than survival.
But when I picture him looking at me like that—like I was beneath him—I know this isn’t just about a job.
It’s about respect.
It’s about whether the sacrifices of a mother mean anything once a child decides they don’t fit his image.
So now I’m left wondering—
Do I walk away from the position that’s finally giving me stability?
Do I push him to confront the hurt he caused?
Or do I stand tall, keep cleaning those glass doors, and trust that one day he’ll understand exactly who kept them open for him?
