I never resented his job.

I respected how hard he worked.

My mother didn’t.

She rarely used his name.

Instead, she’d refer to him as “the mechanic,” emphasizing the words as though his profession were something embarrassing.

One Christmas, she presented him with a gift card to an employment agency.

I was furious.

“Mom, Ethan already has a job!”

She shrugged.

“A better one wouldn’t hurt.”

“He enjoys his work.”

“Enjoyment won’t pay a mortgage, Olivia.”

“We’re managing just fine.”

“For now,” she replied.

Ethan heard every word.

But once again, he refused to argue.

He put the gift card away and never mentioned it again.

Later that evening, I apologized.

He simply shook his head.

“She’s your mother, Liv. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to choose between us.”

Still, I began noticing a change.

Ethan started accepting more shifts.