My mom hated that.
“Why are you hoarding money?” she’d ask like saving was a character flaw.
“I’m saving,” I’d say.
“For what?” Ila would ask, already chewing something she bought.
“For later.”
My mom would laugh. “Later isn’t guaranteed. Enjoy life.”
Then Ila would ask for more money, and somehow there was always more.
“I spent mine,” Ila would say.
My mom would sigh—dramatic and proud—and hand her another bill.
When I asked for more, my mom would stare at me.
“You still have money?” she’d say.
“Yes,” I’d say, because I didn’t spend it.
“Exactly,” she’d say. “So why would you need more?”
That was the rule in my house. Spending was rewarded. Saving was treated like stubbornness.
Ila grew up like she was always about to be photographed—new outfits, new shoes, always social, always surrounded.
I grew up practical. Homework. Part-time job. Quiet hobbies. The kind of life that doesn’t photograph well, but does pay bills.
My family didn’t find that charming.
“You’re so serious,” my mom would say. “Lighten up.”
Ila would roll her eyes. “She’s boring.”
Sometimes my dad would try softly. “Let her be.”
My mom would talk right over him like his words were background music.
“Paige needs to learn,” she’d say. “Life is about people. Paige thinks life is about numbers.”
She wasn’t wrong about the numbers.
Numbers were the only thing in my house that didn’t change when my mom decided to change the story.
Ila married first. She married Mitchell, who looked impressive in the way men look impressive when they know how to talk—nice car, big plans, a confident smile that makes people assume the bank agrees.
My mom loved him immediately, which should tell you everything.
Ila and Mitchell had three kids: Miles, Autumn, and Amy. Their life was loud. Their house was always decorated. Their vacations were always posted. Their upgrades were always explained like the rest of us were waiting for the announcement.
My mom adored it. It fit her worldview.
“That’s success,” she’d say, staring at Ila’s photos like they were proof she’d done parenting correctly.
Then I married Derek.
Derek doesn’t come from money. He comes from work. He fixes things before they break. He keeps a flashlight in the car. He checks weather reports before driving.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t impress people who confuse chaos with personality.
My mom’s review of him was one sentence.
“He’s nice.”
That was it.
Derek and I started a business together—managed property maintenance. In plain English, we take care of rentals. We keep places standing. We fix what breaks, clean what’s left behind, and make sure the next person can walk in without gagging.
My family called it cleaning.
“How’s your little cleaning thing?” Ila would ask, smiling like she was being supportive.
“It’s going,” I’d say.
My mom would wave a hand like she was brushing lint off her sleeve. “That’s not real money.”
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