Mom's Love Is for Everyone but Me

When Mom's video call came through, I was crouching on the dorm room floor, scraping the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

The casing was worn thin and curled at the edges. The moment the scissors cut through it, the little bit of toothpaste inside smeared onto my fingertips.

Before I could even wipe it off, my phone vibrated loudly. A single word flashed across the screen—Mom.

I answered the call.

Her first words weren't asking if I'd eaten dinner yet. Instead, she asked, "Malcolm Judd, why did you buy so much toilet paper? Are you really going through it that fast?"

My hand froze midair.

The dorm room door wasn't fully shut. People were laughing and chatting out in the hallway, so loud and carefree it was as though they were in a different universe.

I lowered my voice. "Mom, that's just a normal everyday item."

"I asked you why you bought so much," she demanded with a frown, as if she were interrogating a liar. "Can you really use all that in a month? Or are you hoarding things behind my back?"

My face instantly burned.

My older sister, Michele Judd, leaned into view from behind her, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Mom, don't be so stern. You're making him nervous."

My younger brother, Mikey Judd, was sitting on the couch with a coffee in his hand, chewing noisily on the straw.

"Don't blame Mom, Malcolm. She's just worried you're wasting money. You didn't grow up in the city, so nobody ever taught you how to be careful with your spending."

As he finished speaking, he casually held his frappe up to the camera. The price sticker was still on the cup—10 dollars.

Earlier this month, I had bought a three-dollar coffee, and Mom circled it in red on my expense log. Her annotation read, "Nonessential social expense. Reducing next month's allowance."

I stared at the coffee in his hand, my throat tightening by the second. Mom didn't scold him. She didn't even glance his way.

She just stared straight at me. "Malcolm, redo your expense report. Two dollars for breakfast is too high. The campus cafeterias have plain bread.

"15 dollars for your phone plan is too high. Students shouldn't be chatting on the phone all day. And be specific about the toilet paper. Don't be vague."

I heard myself ask quietly, "Do I have to be specific about that too, Mom?"

Her expression darkened immediately. "So now you're embarrassed? Why didn't you feel that way when you were spending the money?"

From somewhere behind her, Mom's current boyfriend, Phillip Salazar, let out a quiet sigh.

"Malcolm, your mom isn't being stingy. She's just worried you'll pick up bad habits. You're a grown man now, so you need to be more aware of how you're spending your money. Once you start comparing yourself to others, you won't be able to control your spending."

I wanted to say I wasn't comparing myself to anyone. I never dared to.

My canvas backpack was old. Grandpa had patched the zipper twice. The soles of my shoes had started coming apart, held together by a strip of clear tape wrapped around them. The cafeteria lady had noticed that I always ordered the cheapest dishes and would sometimes quietly give me an extra spoonful of soup.

But the words had just reached the tip of my tongue when I swallowed them back down. I knew it was useless to say anything. To Mom, my explanations were just excuses, my silence was an admission of guilt, and my pain was just me being overly dramatic.

I opened the spreadsheet and filled it out line by line.

Bread: 1 dollar.

Vegetables: 3 dollars.

Bus fare: 1 dollar and 50 cents.

Toilet paper: 6 dollars and 90 cents.

Is it necessary?: Yes.

Ten minutes later, Mom transferred me 250 dollars with a memo that read, "Provisionally approved".

Then she sent another message. "The remaining 150 dollars will depend on your behavior."

Memories of when I was a kid suddenly surfaced as I stared at those words.

I used to live with Grandpa in our old house in a small town. Every New Year's, when Mom came home to visit, she'd pat me on the head and say, "Be good, Malcolm. Once Mom gets settled, I'll bring you to live with me."

Later, she bought a car and moved into a new house. Michele got her own walk-in closet. Mikey got a whole room packed with gaming consoles and cameras.

Yet, I was still waiting by the door of that old house.

I used to think that the lights in the city were just too far away for her to see me. Now, I finally understood. It wasn't that she couldn't see me. I was just never on her list to begin with.

That night, I came across her post on social media.

The nine photos included the beach, a hotel, and floor-to-ceiling windows. There were also ones of Michele carrying a new handbag, Mikey holding a new camera, and Phillip wearing a new watch.

Mom's caption read, "As long as I'm able to, I'll spare no expense to give my kids whatever they want."

I stared at it for a long time.

The thin, empty toothpaste tube was still lying on the desk, like a receipt with everything spent down to the last cent.

Finally, I understood. She wasn't unwilling to spend money on her children. She just wanted me to admit, with every dollar she gave me, that I was beneath them.