It’s not a major transgression, I suppose. Not in the grand scheme. But it’s there, a constant hum beneath the surface of my interactions with my parents. I suppose I’ve been… observing this particular dynamic for a while now. I, a sixty-eight-year-old woman, am still allowing my parents to pay for a significant portion of my monthly rent. And here’s the thing: I don't need them to. Not anymore. It began, as most things do, out of necessity. After the divorce, after the house was sold and the settlement dwindled, I found myself in a rather precarious financial position. My freelance graphic design work, while steady, wasn’t enough to cover everything, especially not in this area of the suburbs where a decent apartment isn't exactly a bargain. My parents, being my parents, immediately offered assistance. They'd always been generous, a consistent safety net. And at that time, I truly needed it. I was grateful. Truly. The arrangement was simple: they'd cover half the rent for my two-bedroom apartment. It was enough to keep me afloat, to prevent me from having to move somewhere less… reputable. Appearances, you see, are rather important in our community. My mother, bless her heart, would frequently mention to her bridge club how she was helping me get back on my feet, how resilient I was. It was a narrative that suited everyone. Then, about three years ago, a new opportunity presented itself. A former client, impressed with some branding work I’d done, approached me about a more extensive, long-term project. It was for a major, publicly traded company – one of those tech giants everyone talks about. The pay was… substantial. More than I’d ever anticipated earning in my entire career. It was a side hustle, initially, something I’d work on in the evenings after my usual freelance tasks were done. But it grew. It ballooned, actually. And my income with it. My bank account began to swell. I started putting away significant sums. I could have easily, *easily*, covered my entire rent, with plenty left over for savings, for travel, for whatever I desired. But I didn't say anything. I just… didn’t. The checks from my parents kept coming, direct deposited on the first of every month. And I let them. I've analyzed my motivations, of course. It's not malicious, I don't believe. There's a certain… comfort in the financial cushion. A feeling of security that I hadn't experienced in decades. And there’s the other aspect, the one that feels a bit more, what's the word, *prickly*. My parents, particularly my mother, derive a distinct satisfaction from being perceived as supportive, as essential. I believe, with some certainty, that if I were to suddenly declare my financial independence, it would disrupt a delicate equilibrium. It would perhaps even be perceived as a rejection of their care. Last week, my mother called, specifically to ask if I was managing alright, if I needed anything else. She’d heard about rising grocery costs, you see. I reassured her, of course. I told her I was fine, that their help with the rent was still a huge comfort. The lie felt like a small, smooth stone in my mouth. It’s not exactly a lie of commission, I tell myself. More of an omission. A careful withholding. Sometimes, late at night, when the house across the street is dark and the only sound is the hum of the refrigerator, I consider what would happen if they found out. Not that they would, unless I told them. They don't scrutinize my finances. They just… help. The thought isn't one of panic, exactly. More of a quiet, analytical assessment of the potential fallout. A disruption, certainly. Perhaps a touch of hurt. But mostly, I imagine, a sense of confusion. Why would I do this? Why would I allow them to continue if I didn't need to? It’s stupid, really. This whole situation. A grown woman, still accepting pocket money from her elderly parents. But the truth is, the pattern has been established. The machinery is in motion. And to stop it now… well, that would require an effort that I’m simply not inclined to expend. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.