Her words landed like a punch. “Yeah, but what good were those opportunities if I’m still struggling?” There was a pause. Then she asked softly, “What exactly do you need?” I hesitated. I hadn’t even thought about putting it into words. “I don’t know… money to help with my credit card debt, rent, maybe my car payments. Just enough to breathe.” Her sigh was long, weary. “I’m going to be really honest with you. I love you more than anything, but I don’t think handing you money will fix this. You need to figure out how you got here in the first place.”
The sting was immediate. “So this is my fault?” “No,” she said gently, “this is your responsibility.” I gripped the phone tighter, the air in the room suddenly heavy. “You’re not a kid anymore,” she went on. “You have a good job, don’t you?” “Yeah, but it barely covers everything.” “What about budgeting? Have you looked at where your money’s going?” Silence. Because the truth? I hadn’t. I knew I was overspending, but I’d been avoiding the mirror, afraid of what I’d see. My version of a plan had been… swiping my card and hoping something would magically work out.
