Parents and their ‘support’

“As long as you’re not eighteen, I’ll give you money, a little, for food, for clothes, just enough. After that, you’ll manage on your own, Lucía. I don’t know what your life will be like, but I don’t want you to end up like your father and me,” my mother, Ludivina Méndez, told me, in a tone that seemed like a huge favor. I froze, unable to believe these were my own mother’s words. After my birthday, will I stop being her daughter? And what does “like them” mean? I already don’t want to be like my parents, who seem to have forgotten what it means to be a family. But those words hurt me so much that I haven’t been able to recover.

I’m sixteen, and I always knew our relationship wasn’t perfect. My mother, Ludivina, and my father, Alejandro, live their lives, and I live mine. They’re not bad people, but, how can I put it, irresponsible. My father sometimes works, sometimes he stays home, wasting time in the garage with his friends. My mother is always busy with her own things, whether it’s selling at the flea market or gossiping with the neighbors. Since I was little, I’ve learned to fend for myself: I cook, I clean, I study to get A’s and get into university. But I never imagined they would make it so clear to me that, when I turned eighteen, they would no longer need me.

It all started last week, when I asked him for money for new sneakers. Mine were in tatters, and there was a track and field competition at school. I didn’t want to look bad. He looked at me like I was a beggar and blurted out, “Lucia, you’re grown up now, you could earn something yourself. I’ll give you something to eat.” Give me? It’s barely 40 euros a week, which is barely enough for the bus fare and a sandwich in the cafeteria! I tried to explain that sneakers aren’t a luxury, but he cut me off: “I’ll help you until you’re 18, then snap out of it. Your father and I aren’t a bank.” I nearly choked with rage. They’re not a bank? So what? Parents who put an expiration date on their support?

I locked myself in my room and cried until midnight. Not because of the slippers, but because of how cold it sounded. I’ve never been a burden. I’ve never asked for anything, nor have I cried over designer clothes like my classmates. I dreamed of going to college, finding a job, being independent. But I believed I’d have a family that would be there for me, even if I made mistakes. And now what? My mother has made it clear: after eighteen, I’m alone. And what does that “don’t end up like us” mean? That I’ll be as irresponsible as them? Or that I should forget about family, like they did?

I tried to talk to my father, hoping for his support, but he just shrugged: “Lucia, your mother is right. We feed you, we clothe you, the rest is up to you.” My business? And what about them in my life? Where is their support when I pull an all-nighter studying? Or their pride when I bring home awards? They don’t even ask how I am, and now this. I feel like I’ve been erased from the family before my time.

I told my best friend, and she said, “Lucia, they’re afraid you’ll depend on them. Show them you can do more.” Show them? I already do! I study, I give private lessons, I save up for a laptop. But I’m sixteen, I can’t grow up all at once. And I don’t want to prove anything to parents who see me as a hindrance. I want them to be there, so I can talk to them if I’m scared or have problems. But instead, they give me an expiration date.

Now I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to leave now, rent a room, find a job, show them I can. But I know it’s unrealistic: I have school, exams. Another part wants to talk to my mom, explain how much it hurts. But I’m afraid she’ll tell me, “Don’t overdo it.” And the worst part is, I’m starting to doubt myself. What if I end up like them? What if I can’t and my life will be the same, without support, without love?

I’ve decided I won’t let their words break me. I’ll keep studying, working, building my future. But not for them, but for me. I don’t want to be like my parents, not because they’re “bad,” but because I believe in a family that supports each other, unconditionally. When I have children, I’ll never tell them, “At eighteen, you’ll grow up.” I’ll be with them, even if they fail, even if they’re thirty. Because family isn’t a bank with a schedule.

For now, I’m just trying to get over this blow. I bought some sneakers with my savings—not the ones I wanted, but they’ll do. I go for a run, put on some music, and think: I’ll make it through. Not to prove anything to them, but to myself. But deep down, it still hurts. I hope one day they’ll understand what they lost. And I’ll find those who are my true family, not by blood, but by heart.