Chapter 2: Family Audit—No Room to Breathe

“Rachel, did you get this week’s allowance?”

Her voice blasted through the speaker, sharp enough to make my roommate flinch. Her face filled the phone screen, all pursed lips and furrowed brow. “Remember to eat more protein. That’s the only way to stay healthy.”

It was classic Mom: act like the world’s best nutritionist right after cutting my food budget to less than a dollar a meal. I stared at the $16.25 Venmo transfer she’d just sent me, stunned. $16.25 for living expenses?

Did Mom forget a zero? Even with another zero, it wouldn’t be enough.

My heart pounded and my hands shook as I reread the text. I felt a wave of disbelief. Was this some new brand of tough love? I glanced around my tiny apartment, eyeing the Ramen on the counter and my half-empty bag of trail mix.

I hurriedly texted: “Mom, did you make a mistake? Why is my allowance only $16?”

I could see the three dots as she typed, paused, and deleted. It felt like she was holding my fate in those little bubbles. Finally, she replied:

“That’s right. Starting this month, your living expenses are $65. I’ll give it to you weekly, $16 at a time.

Oh, and don’t forget: every time you get your allowance, send me a detailed breakdown of how you spend it.

You’re at college by yourself now. Your dad and I can’t keep an eye on you. You need to be self-disciplined—absolutely no developing expensive habits.”

She always drops that last line like a final nail. It’s as if eating anything fancier than instant noodles is a gateway to a life of crime. I could picture her shaking her head at her phone, convinced she’s the last line of defense between me and total financial ruin. It’s like she’s auditioning for Tiger Mom of the Year, and I’m the only judge.

Expensive? At this point, do I even deserve that word?

I’m about as “expensive” as a library card. When you’re living off oatmeal and budgeting toilet paper squares, you stop dreaming about avocado toast.

What’s gotten into Mom this time?

I really wish I knew. Maybe she read a parenting blog about tough love. Maybe she’s just bored now that I’m away. I ran through all the reasons, but none of them made sense for a mom who used to slip $20 bills into my lunchbox.

Since the start of the new semester, my monthly allowance dropped from $200 to $160, then to $130.

I’d gotten used to the slide—first no more Uber rides, then no more Chipotle burritos, then rationing shampoo. My bank app looked like a slow-motion car crash.

I gritted my teeth and made do: oatmeal for breakfast, one sandwich for lunch, skipped dinner. I squeezed in part-time jobs just to scrape by.

Sometimes I’d walk past the dining hall, smelling the pizza, stomach aching. Late-night shifts folding T-shirts at Old Navy, or selling tickets at the campus theater, just so I could afford an occasional grocery splurge. My world had shrunk to price tags and meal deals.

My university is in Chicago—the so-called Windy City—where prices are sky-high. A few dozen dollars barely covers the basics. At the campus CVS, even the off-brand toothpaste is overpriced, and the cashier always looks at me like I’m buying contraband. I don’t dare buy anything extra, and even hanging out is a luxury. I’m terrified of dinner or shopping invites.

I see other students picking up Pumpkin Spice Lattes, making plans for Wicker Park shopping trips, and I just try to blend in, nodding and smiling, hoping no one notices I always find an excuse to duck out.

Now it’s worse. My allowance is halved again, from $130 to $65—a huge drop, and not the good kind.

That’s not a haircut. That’s a buzz cut. Every penny now had a purpose—mostly, keeping me from starving.

Life can’t go on like this.

I looked at my spreadsheet, trying not to panic. There was no margin for error anymore. One wrong move, and I’d be borrowing money just to buy ramen.

She even tells me to eat more protein. Can I afford it?

Eggs are expensive. Chicken breasts are a luxury. I googled “cheapest source of protein” and almost cried when tofu came up—the only thing cheaper than tofu was air.

$65, split into four payments—is this charity for the homeless?

Honestly, I could make more panhandling on Michigan Avenue. At least those guys get to keep their change and don’t have to file reports to their moms.

And the accounting—she wants to check every penny. How is this different from a landlord squeezing their tenants?

My friends joke about their landlords taking pictures of every little scratch. At least their landlords aren’t their moms.

I tried to reason with Mom: “Mom, $65 is really too little. It’s not even enough for food.”

I typed out a whole budget, line by line, like I was prepping for Shark Tank. I even included screenshots of the cafeteria menu.

“At our dining hall, a salad is $3, anything with chicken is over $6. If I want a little treat, it’s nearly $10.

Besides food, I have to buy daily necessities: tampons, toothpaste, tissues, laundry detergent…

I’m not saying I buy new clothes every week, but at least once a month, or at least a new piece each season.

I don’t even think about makeup, but as a girl, I need basic skincare—even the cheapest set is about $15.

There’s also socializing: class dinners, friends inviting me out—all of it costs money. And…”

I wanted to add more, but Mom called and cut me off, her angry voice blasting through the phone:

“Fine, Rachel, you’re really getting wild now that you’re away from home!

You think $65 a month is too little? Back in my day, do you know how much I had? You don’t know how good you have it.

Can’t you save your parents some trouble? What’s wrong with wanting you to be thrifty? That’s a good American value!

I’m your mother. Whatever I give you, you should be grateful, and you dare say it’s not enough?

Besides, you should be studying hard in college. Why are you always going to those random parties? Can those people be any good? You’re not allowed to go.

And finally—if you keep arguing, I won’t give you a single cent more!”

She hung up on me.

The call ended, leaving me in the blue light glow of my laptop, my jaw tight, my pride bruised. I stared at my phone, hands trembling, feeling both guilty and weirdly proud. This is the seventh time since starting college that Mom has threatened to cut off my living expenses.