Michael, my 22-year-old son, had been saving for a car but grew increasingly impatient. One afternoon, he stormed into the kitchen while I was preparing lunch. “Mom, we need to talk,” he said seriously. I turned to face him, a bit startled. “Sure, what’s on your mind?” He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I need a car.”

I was taken aback. “A car? What happened to saving up with your part-time job?” Michael sighed in frustration. “I know, but it’s taking forever. All my friends have cars, and I’m tired of depending on you for rides or taking the bus. I need my freedom.”

I tried to reason with him, saying, “Michael, cars are expensive. We can’t just buy one out of the blue. You need to be patient.” His face tightened. “Well, maybe I’ll just go live with Dad then. He’ll buy me a car.”

His words hit me like a ton of bricks. “You can’t just threaten to leave because you’re not getting what you want,” I responded, trying to stay calm. “Dad would understand,” he shot back, clearly upset.

In the following days, the tension between us grew. Every attempt I made to talk about the situation ended in arguments. Michael became more distant, spending time with friends or locked in his room.

One morning, I found a note on the kitchen counter: “Mom, I’m going to stay with Dad for a while. Maybe he’ll understand me better.” My heart sank. I knew this day might come, but I never expected it would happen like this.