“Randall, this is my house because I am the one who bought it with my own money,” I said while looking him directly in the eyes. “I pay every single bill and the deed is recorded solely in my name.”
He actually laughed at me as if I had just told a very funny joke and as if a woman of my age had no right to have an opinion about her own life. That laugh hurt much more than any shout or insult could have because it was filled with pure contempt and a sense of unearned superiority.
“Oh Mom, please do not be so dramatic about this temporary situation,” he said while waving his hand dismissively. “It is only until we find something bigger and having extra company will actually be very good for your mental health.”
“You should not be living alone at your age because what would happen if you fell and no one was around to notice?” he asked with a fake tone of concern. There was that manipulative phrase my children always used when they wanted to force me into doing something that benefited them.
It was as if turning seventy had suddenly made me incapable of logical thought or as if my decades of life experience meant nothing compared to the decisions of a forty-year-old man. He could not even provide a decent home for his own family yet he felt qualified to manage my entire existence.
