Lola was actually pretty pleased with herself, holding my annual food delivery statement and jabbing at it:
"Look! On food delivery alone, you blew over five grand in a year! That's all gutter oil—eat that and you'll die young!"
She turned and marched straight to the kitchen, chopping vegetables with aggressive thuds, announcing she was making Alex a "healthy, home-cooked lunch."
I glanced at that lunch box and nearly laughed out loud.
Boiled cabbage in plain water, not a drop of oil, with a few dark, blackish slices of fatty cured pork laid on top. She'd brought that from her hometown, calling it "free-range pork," but it was pure fat. Just looking at it made you feel greasy.
Alex started to protest, but Lola shot him a glare. "Food delivery is poison for lazy people! This is how Mom eats to live a real life!"
At three that afternoon, Alex messaged me on WeChat to complain.
He'd just cracked open the lunch box in the company cafeteria, and that rancid, old cured-meat smell hit him immediately.
A coworker leaned over for a look and laughed. "Yo, Alex, that's really going back to basics. What, reminiscing about hard times?"
Alex had thin skin. His face turned purple on the spot.
He couldn't bring himself to eat it. He dumped that whole "loving lunch" into the slop bucket and forced himself through the rest of the afternoon on plain water.
I replied with an "Oh," then pocketed my phone.
Serves him right.
Let his mom straighten him out. Then he'll know who actually understands how to live well.
Early the next morning, I changed into a suit and did a full face of makeup.
The moment I stepped out of the bedroom, I had to hopscotch through a pile of bottles and jars. The living room floor was covered with laundry detergent, dish soap, and toilet paper.
Lola was squatting there with a little notebook, taking inventory, muttering to herself: "This bottle lasted three months—how'd that one run out in two? Must've used too much…"
I stepped over her hoard like it was garbage, without turning my head.
At the company, I handed my resume across the desk.
These past few years I'd been home trying to get pregnant, but my previous project experience was solid, all in black and white, and I'd kept up my certifications too.
The interviewer asked a few technical questions, and I answered without missing a beat.
They made a decision on the spot and gave me an offer.
I have hands and feet. I have a brain and skills. Why should I swallow this kind of humiliation at home?
That night when I got back, Lola was still poring over my annual statement.
She pointed at the makeup and skincare, jabbing the screen so hard it crackled:
"Look at this! Three grand! You buy this watery stuff just to smear on your face? Is your face made of gold? Spending like this—how much is Alex going to have to earn to fill this hole?"
I ignored the spit flying from her mouth.
I tossed my bag onto the couch and shoved my phone in front of her.
"Look carefully."
"From now on, I earn my own money and spend it myself. If I want thousand-dollar skincare, I'll buy thousand-dollar skincare. If I want delivery, I'll order delivery."
"My money. Not your place to manage. If you can't stand it, go back to your own home."
