If I sent it, she'd take a magnifying glass and pick everything apart—$200 skincare would be "wasteful," and $15 fried chicken would be "not caring about the family."
If I didn't send it, I'd be "hiding something."
I clattered away typing:
"Mom, the annual recap is full of my whereabouts and personal preferences. That's private. If you're so bored, go do your line dancing."
Lola panicked and started with the whole routine—crying, making a scene, threatening to throw herself off the balcony:
"My life is so bitter! Every day I go to the farmers market to pick up discounted vegetables, stretching every dollar, all to save up a nest egg for your little family! What's wrong with me asking you to show a bill? I'm afraid you'll be brainwashed by those influencers and spend the whole family's savings away!"
"Now your wings have hardened—you look down on an old woman like me, don't you? You think I'm meddling too much?"
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my brain.
Here we go again.
Packaging control as "it's for your own good," and calling invasion of privacy "I'm just looking out for you."
I sneered and @-mentioned my husband and father-in-law, who were lurking and watching the show.