I brushed them off at first, not wanting to stir conflict. But then, one evening, the truth came out.
I was setting the table for dinner when Melissa crossed her arms and said firmly, “Bertha, you can’t expect to live here for free. This is not a shelter.”
The plate in my hand nearly slipped. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she said coldly. “You’re staying here, eating here, using electricity, water, everything. And it’s not fair. Cooking dinner doesn’t count as rent.”
My heart pounded. I turned to David, desperate for support. “David…?”
But my son, my only child, kept his eyes glued to his phone. He didn’t say a word.
I swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t realize I was a burden. I thought I was helping.”
Melissa shrugged. “You’ll need to do more.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My chest ached as I stared at the ceiling. Still, I told myself it was just a bad day. Tomorrow would be better.
