The day my stepdaughter Lauren moved back home, I envisioned movie nights and heart-to-heart talks. Instead, I got three months of being treated like hired help. At 24, Lauren acted like basic chores were beneath her – leaving trails of destruction from the kitchen to the living room.
“Mom, where’s my blue sweater?” she’d yell from upstairs while I scrambled eggs for her breakfast. “Can you wash these jeans? I need them tonight,” she’d demand, tossing them at my feet. My husband thought it was just a phase. I knew it was disrespect.
Everything changed the morning I found her expensive face cream smeared across my antique dresser. That’s when I declared silent war. Every mess Lauren made stayed exactly where she left it. When her room became uninhabitable, I “helpfully” moved all her clutter to the dining table “so she wouldn’t lose anything.”
The turning point? Packing her gym bag with all the trash from her weekly snacking spree. The voicemail I got was unforgettable: “OH MY GOD I JUST SHOWERED AT THE GYM AND ALL MY CLEAN CLOTHES SMELL LIKE PIZZA CRUSTS!”
Now? Lauren actually rinses her own dishes. We’re not quite Gilmore Girls, but last weekend she surprised me by vacuuming without being asked. Sometimes the best parenting move is to stop parenting altogether.
