The house was mine. I’d bought it twelve years ago for $320,000, put down $64,000—twenty percent, like you’re supposed to—and borrowed $256,000 on a thirty-year mortgage. I’d been paying it down steadily. $76,000 paid off so far, balance remaining $180,000.
Fair market rent for a three-bedroom house in my neighborhood: $1,800 a month. They’d been there twenty-four months.
That was $43,200.
Utilities. I pulled two years of bills from before they moved in. My average monthly cost had been $150. After they moved in, it jumped to $500.
An extra $350 a month times twenty-four months: $8,400.
Groceries. I’d been buying for three adults instead of one. Amber didn’t work. Brandon’s “meetings” never seemed to involve income. I averaged an extra $200 a month on food.
Times twenty-four: $4,800.
But it wasn’t just the big categories.
I pulled up the list I’d been keeping on my phone—the small things, the things I’d told myself didn’t matter.
$3,200 for a new air conditioning unit last summer. Brandon insisted we needed the high-capacity model so he could game in comfort without overheating, while I was still using a desk fan in my bedroom to save electricity.
$1,200 for new carpet in the living room after their dog—the dog I never gave permission to bring into my house—destroyed the old one. When I asked them to pay for it, Amber cried and said I was punishing her for having a pet.
$850 in gas money. Twenty here, forty there. “Just until payday, Mom.” Payday never came.
$780 in car insurance. “Just this month, I promise.” Six months. $130 per month.
$935 for Brandon’s phone bill. My business line got cut off. Eleven months at $85 per month—for the business that never existed.
$450 for prescription medication for Brandon’s back pain. He swore it was the last time he’d need me to cover it. I paid with my health savings account. Two weeks later, I saw him moving furniture like nothing was wrong.
$420 in HOA fees they “forgot” to pay—three months in a row. I paid them to avoid the house getting a lien.
$340 for roof leak repair supplies Brandon promised to install himself. He never did. The leak was still there.
$290 in vet bills for their dog—an emergency visit for eating chocolate. I wasn’t even home when it happened. They called me at work crying.
The small loans added up to $5,100.
None of it repaid. All of it “temporary.” All of it “just this once.”
And then there was the big one.
A credit line Brandon had convinced me to open for his startup a year ago. He promised it was just for equipment, but the balance was maxed out at $15,000—gone into the same black hole as the rest.
I stared at the total at the bottom of the spreadsheet.
$61,500.
That was just the money.
It didn’t count the promotion I didn’t apply for because I was too exhausted from supporting three adults on one salary. It didn’t count the retirement contributions I’d reduced to cover their expenses. It didn’t count the vacation I’d canceled, the repairs I’d deferred, the life I’d put on hold.
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