As I stepped into my mom’s house to retrieve my things, the truth was laid out in front of me, a truth that was as absurd as it was infuriating. The living room, once a cozy gathering spot, was transformed into an art gallery of sorts. But not the kind you’d find in a sophisticated museum. No, this was a shrine to excessive shopping. Piles of unopened packages and shopping bags filled the room, each spilling its contents of high-end clothes, shoes, and gadgets.
It was like a punchline to a joke I never realized I was part of.
I chuckled at the irony. My payments, meant to help my mom with imaginary debts, had funded her addiction to retail therapy. The debts I’d been so eager to help her stay on top of were, in reality, her lavish shopping sprees. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming, and in a moment of clarity, I found humor in the situation. I had deprived myself of so much, thinking I was being dutiful, all while my mom lived out her fantasies at the nearest boutique.
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