Her words landed like a slap. “Right, but what good are those chances if I’m still barely keeping afloat?” She paused, then asked gently, “What exactly are you after?” I hesitated. I hadn’t even managed to put it into words. “I don’t know… some cash to clear my credit‑card balance, cover the rent, maybe sort the car loan. Just enough to catch my breath.” Her sigh stretched, weary. “I’ll be brutally honest. I love you more than anything, but handing you money won’t cure this. You need to work out how you ended up here in the first place.”
The sting hit instantly. “So it’s my fault?”
“No,” she said softly, “it’s your responsibility.” My grip on the phone tightened, the air in the cramped flat grew heavy. “You’re not a boy anymore,” she continued. “You’ve got a decent job, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but it barely covers everything.”
“What about budgeting? Have you traced where every pound goes?” Silence. The truth? I hadn’t. I knew I was splashing out, but I’d been dodging the mirror, scared of what I’d see. My idea of a plan had been… swiping my card and hoping something would magically sort itself.
“I didn’t raise you to be helpless,” Eleanor Whitaker said. “If you need help—not just a lifeline—I’m here. But on terms that…”
