My son is Michael. He had just turned 22 last month, and I thought we had passed the turbulent teenage years. Little did I know, a storm was brewing right under my nose.

While I was preparing lunch in the kitchen, Michael stormed in, his face twisted with frustration.

“Mom, we need to talk,” he said, his tone unusually serious.

I turned to him and said, “Sure, what’s on your mind, honey?”

He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I need a car.”

I paused, taken aback. “A car? What happened to your part-time job? You were saving up for one.”

Michael let out an exasperated sigh. “I know, but it’s taking forever to save up, and I really need it now.”

I frowned, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. “Michael, cars are expensive. You know that. Besides, you have a job, you can save up a bit more and—”

Impatient, he cut me off, “No, Mom, I can’t wait anymore. All my friends have cars, and I’m tired of depending on you for rides or taking the bus. I need my freedom.”

I felt frustrated, saying “Michael, I understand, but we can’t just afford to buy you a car out of the blue. It’s not that simple.”

He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “Well, maybe I’ll just go live with Dad then. He’ll buy me a car.”

His words hit me like a ton of bricks.