He told me it would be temporary. “A few months,” he said, “until I save for a down payment.” That was eleven months ago. Now he works from my dining room table, on conference calls with his camera off. He sleeps past noon, heats up leftovers, and orders DoorDash like it’s a subscription. His laundry piles up in the guest room; his girlfriend “stays over” more nights than she doesn’t. My house has become his co-living space and I’m the unpaid landlord. When I asked him to contribute—anything—he looked offended. “Mom, rent’s impossible out there. You wouldn’t get it,” he said. He’s right that rent is insane. He’s wrong that I don’t get the pressure. I paid my dues. I worked nights. I’m not trying to be cruel—I just don’t want to be erased from my own home. My husband thinks we should “be supportive.” My sister calls me dramatic. The neighbors whisper. And me? I lie awake wondering if I enabled this. Did I make life too easy and create a 29-year-old who’s allergic to adulting? Or am I the unreasonable parent expecting a grown man to act like one? I love him. I want him to succeed. But when does help become permission to never try? #Family #Money #Adulting