“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.
“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.
