Chapter 5: The Sick Call and the Stand

But the day before my thesis defense, Mom called me:

Her number flashed on my phone, and I knew what was coming. I almost didn’t answer, but old habits die hard.

“AJ, Mom’s feeling really sick today. Can you come home and keep me company?”

Her voice was weak, trembling. She played the part well—just enough guilt to tug at my heartstrings.

I was all too familiar with this line.

She’d been using it for years. It was her go-to move, the one that always worked when she wanted something.

Ever since I started college, Mom “got sick” twice a month.

I kept a mental tally—every other week, like clockwork. The symptoms changed, but the request was always the same.

First thing she’d do when she saw me was cry about her hard life and how she couldn’t afford treatment, then immediately ask for money.

It was a well-rehearsed routine. Tears, complaints, a laundry list of expenses. I always caved, handing over whatever I had, hoping it would be enough.

Because of her constant “illness,” I worked four or five jobs a day from my freshman year, keeping just enough to eat and sending the rest home.

I delivered pizzas, tutored high school kids, worked the night shift at the gas station. My friends went to parties; I went to work. I thought I was being a good son.

But the more I gave, the colder she got with me, while treating my good-for-nothing, stay-at-home brother better and better.

He never lifted a finger, but he got the best cuts of meat at dinner, the warmest hugs, the loudest praise. I was invisible, except when she needed something.

I used to feel hurt, hoping she’d notice me more.

I bent over backwards, desperate for her approval. I thought if I just tried harder, she’d love me the way she loved him.

But now…

Something inside me snapped. I was done being the family ATM. I let the silence stretch, then spoke.

“Mom, you’ve been sick so many times. Maybe you should just tough it out.”

I kept my tone flat, almost bored. I wanted her to know I wasn’t falling for it anymore.

“Fine, I’ll stay home… What? What did you say?” Her voice on the phone was full of disbelief, strong and loud—not at all like someone seriously ill.

She forgot to sound weak, the shock breaking through. For a second, I almost laughed.

“AJ, how can you talk to your mother like that? It breaks my heart!”

She laid it on thick, but I wasn’t buying it. I rolled my eyes, phone pressed to my ear.

“You’ve gotten ‘sick’ twice a month since I started college, always just to ask for money. That hurts me too.”

I let the words hang in the air, daring her to deny it. I could almost hear her grinding her teeth.

I didn’t bother listening to her response and hung up.

I set the phone down, heart pounding. For the first time, I felt a strange sense of power.

A long while later, she texted:

The message popped up, her tone softer now, almost pleading. I could picture her pacing the kitchen, phone clutched tight.

“I’m not asking for money this time. Your sister-in-law’s been married for days now, and you still haven’t come home for a meal. That doesn’t look good. Listen to me, come home for dinner and stay the night, okay?”

She tried a different tactic—guilt mixed with tradition. I could almost hear her sigh, the way she’d do when she wanted something but wouldn’t say it outright.

I wanted to refuse.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I was tired of playing their games. But then, a thought struck me—an idea that made me smile.

Maybe it was time to turn the tables. Maybe I could use their tricks against them.

I typed back:

I let her wait a few seconds, then sent: "Okay, Mom. I’ll definitely come home."

I hit send and leaned back, already planning my next move.

The next day, as soon as I walked in, I was greeted by Mom, my brother, and my sister-in-law, all smiles:

They stood in the foyer like a welcome committee, grins plastered on their faces. The house smelled of roast chicken and fresh bread, the table set with my favorite blue plates.

“AJ, you must be tired. They say writing a master’s thesis is tough. Your sister-in-law made a whole table of your favorite dishes. Try them!”

Mom’s voice was syrupy-sweet, her eyes shining with false warmth. My brother clapped me on the back, and my sister-in-law beamed, playing the perfect hostess.

Mom was unusually warm, as if yesterday’s argument had never happened.

She bustled around, refilling my glass, piling my plate high. It was all for show, but I played along, smiling politely.