The television came first on my list. That was easy. I could picture Michael’s face when I told him I wanted to get it for Christmas. He tried to protest, said it was too much, but his eyes had lit up in a way that told me he wanted it desperately.
Next, the sofa set. I remembered the day Amanda and I went shopping for it. She’d walked through that furniture store like a woman on a mission, pointing at different pieces, sitting on them, testing them. When she finally found the one she loved, she’d turned to me with this hopeful expression.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she’d said.
And it was. Still is, really—even if I’ve never found it comfortable.
I wrote it down, then added the matching armchair and ottoman, the coffee table that went with the set.
The kitchen appliances took up half a page by themselves. The refrigerator had been Amanda’s idea after they moved in. She’d said the one that came with the house was outdated, didn’t match her vision. I’d suggested maybe we could get it painted or add new handles, something simple. But she’d pulled up pictures on her phone showing me these sleek, modern refrigerators with water dispensers and special temperature zones.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Mom?” she’d asked, to have something really nice.
So I’d bought it—had it delivered and installed while they were at work, wanting to surprise them.
The microwave, the stand mixer, the food processor, the espresso machine Michael had mentioned wanting just once in passing and that I’d ordered online the next day.
I remembered the blender particularly well. Amanda had seen it at a friend’s house and talked about it for weeks. Top of the line, commercial grade, the kind that could pulverize anything.
Six hundred dollars.
I’d bought it for her birthday and wrapped it myself, watching her unwrap it with genuine joy.
“You’re too good to me, Mom,” she’d said, hugging me.
At the time, I’d felt warm all over—proud, happy to make her happy. Now, writing it down on my list, I felt something different. Not quite sadness. More like recognition.
The washer and dryer were next. Their old set had broken down about a year ago, and Michael had been stressed about the cost of replacing them. He’d started researching secondhand options, talking about how maybe they could make do with going to the laundromat for a while.
I told him not to worry, told him I’d take care of it.
The new set I bought wasn’t secondhand. It was top of the line with all the settings and features Amanda had admired at her sister’s house. Steam clean. Delicate cycle. Extra capacity.
“This is too much, Mom,” Michael had said when they were delivered.
But he’d accepted them anyway.
I flipped to the next receipt in my folder. The lawn mower. The patio furniture. The grill Michael used every summer weekend.
Page after page of purchases, each one connected to a memory, a moment, a feeling.
The thing about giving is that it can feel so good in the moment. You see someone you love light up with happiness, and you think, Yes. This is what I’m supposed to do. This is how I show I care.
But there’s a difference between giving freely and giving because you’re afraid of what will happen if you stop.
I’d crossed that line somewhere.
And I hadn’t even noticed.
By the time I got to the household accounts, my hand was starting to cramp. I’d taken over the electric service about eighteen months ago. Michael had mentioned one month that it was higher than expected—something about the air conditioning running constantly during a heat wave. I’d offered to cover it, just that once, just to help.
But once became twice.
Twice became always.
