And I remembered the day four years ago now when my father had called me crying about how they had lost everything they had saved for retirement. The investment scheme that turned out to be completely fraudulent. The completely depleted savings account that resulted. The threat of foreclosure on their family house they were facing.
I had just closed on my own home at that time, a modest three-bedroom in a quiet neighborhood that represented years of sacrifice and careful financial planning on my part. Without hesitation at all, I had offered to let them stay with me until they got back on their feet again.
“Just for a little while,” my mother had said, already directing the movers where to put her furniture in my house. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it at all.”
But they never left my house after that. And slowly over time, my home became their home instead of mine. My furniture was moved to the garage to make room for theirs to be displayed. My decorations were replaced with family photos that mysteriously featured far more pictures of Britney than of me in them. My spare bedroom became my father’s man cave for himself, and my home office became my mother’s craft room for her projects.
When I started dating someone seriously for the first time in years, my mother had made it abundantly clear that bringing him to the house would be inappropriate behavior.
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