"It's a few hundred bucks. Let her talk. You're not going to die from it. Alright, alright—my boss just walked over. We'll talk when I get home."
Beep.
He hung up.
I stared at the black screen, my head throbbing.
So in her son's eyes, his mom is old and doesn't know better, and I'm petty and don't know better.
Only him—stuck in the middle—the real victim here.
That night, Alex came home with a face longer than a mule's.
He threw his briefcase on the couch and yanked at his tie.
"My phone's been blowing up all day. Second aunt, third uncle, my oldest aunt—everyone taking turns. Mom told them you're hiding something. That you must be funneling money to your parents."
I was at the dining table drinking water. I nearly choked.
"Funneling money to my parents? My mom's a retired teacher—her pension's higher than your salary. You think she needs my pocket change?"
Alex waved his hand, irritated, and dropped onto the couch.
"Stop being stubborn. Mom's just curious—she wants to take a look. We've got nothing to hide, so why act like we do? One look won't kill you. But you keep refusing, and now it looks like—you know—like you're protesting too much."