It Hurts So Much: My Parents Just Used Me

“Why do eggs cost this much now? We might as well just stop eating breakfast,” Dad grumbled, slamming the carton down so hard that the cracked shells leaked yellow goo onto my hand.

I was twenty-six, standing in the middle of Walmart with my parents, my debit card already pinched between my fingers. Mom shot me that look—the one that said, ‘Here’s your cue.’

“Danny, could you cover groceries this week?” she asked, her voice soft but calculated. “Your father’s paycheck was short again.”

It hurt. Not the money, but the certainty that this wasn’t about eggs or paychecks. This was about how, for as long as I could remember, everything came down to what I could give them, how much I could shoulder. I swallowed my protest and nodded, flashing a practiced smile at the cashier, who didn’t bother to hide her suspicion that I was just another broke kid bailing out his parents.

But I wasn’t broke. Not yet. That was the problem.

After we loaded the groceries into the trunk, Dad lit a cigarette and leaned on the car door. “You know, son, when you were born, we thought life would get easier. Kids are supposed to bring good luck.”

I wanted to scream, to tell him that their luck, whatever it was, had bled into my life like a stain. But instead, I drove them home, their voices a distant buzz behind my own thoughts.

It wasn’t always like this. When I was in high school, I was the kid who stayed late to mop the school cafeteria so I could buy my own soccer cleats. I got a scholarship to Ohio State, and I remember the way my parents beamed at graduation, as if every tassel and honor was theirs. It felt good then—like I was finally giving them something back. But it didn’t stop there.

In college, when I called home, they always needed something. “Can you send a little money? Just for groceries, or gas, or the cable bill.” I worked two jobs and skipped meals, sending home what I could. They never asked if I had enough.

After graduation, I landed a job in Columbus—not my dream job, but steady. I rented a tiny apartment and bought my first car. The calls home increased. “Danny, your dad’s truck broke down again.” “Danny, we need help with the mortgage.”

I watched my savings drain away, but what else could I do? I was their only child. I told myself it was my duty, my way to show love. But every time I visited, I saw new things—Mom’s fancy kitchen gadgets, Dad’s new fishing gear. I tried not to notice, tried to believe their stories about hard times.

Then came last Thanksgiving. I drove home, exhausted after covering shifts for a coworker whose kid was sick. As I pulled into the driveway, I saw a brand new flat-screen TV glowing through the living room window. Mom met me at the door with a hug, her eyes darting to my car.

“New tires?” she asked. “Must have cost a fortune.”

“It was time,” I said, forcing a grin. “I was worried about driving in the snow.”

She pursed her lips. “We still haven’t been able to fix the heater. It gets so cold at night.”

I nodded, my stomach sinking. I knew what was coming. Later, after dinner, they cornered me in the kitchen.

“Danny, you’re doing so well now,” Dad said. “Maybe you could help us out a little more. Just until we get back on our feet.”

“Are you really on your feet?” I snapped, unable to hold it in. “You have a new TV, new gadgets, but you can’t pay for heat?”

Mom’s face hardened. “Don’t talk to us like that. We gave up everything for you.”

I wanted to laugh—wanted to shout that they hadn’t sacrificed; they’d just passed the burden on. But the guilt rushed in, thick and suffocating. I pulled out my wallet, handed over my last $200, and left before the pie was served.

Driving back to Columbus, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I thought about all the things I’d given up: the trips I never took, the friends I never made, the relationships I let die because I was always on call for them. My therapist once called it emotional blackmail. I called it family.

Last month, I finally hit a wall. My landlord posted an eviction notice—my rent check bounced because I’d sent money home for Dad’s dental bill. I called Mom in tears.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I choked out. “I’m losing everything. I need help.”

There was silence. Then, “Well, Danny, you’re young. You’ll bounce back. We’re old. We need you.”

Something snapped. I hung up and didn’t call back. The silence was a relief, but it hurt like hell.

I got a second job, moved in with a roommate, started saying “no”—at least, I tried. The guilt clawed at me in the quiet hours. My parents sent texts that went unanswered. I blocked their number once, then unblocked it, feeling like a monster. The world tells you to honor your parents, but what if all you are to them is a wallet, a lifeline they never intend to let go?

Last week, I ran into my old high school coach at the grocery store. He asked about my folks. I lied and said they were fine. He looked at me for a long time, then said, “You can’t save everyone, Danny. Sometimes you just have to save yourself.”

I stood in the parking lot, groceries in hand, watching the sun dip behind the water tower. For the first time, I let myself cry, not because I was weak, but because I was finally letting go.

So here I am, telling you my story. Do you think it’s selfish to walk away when the people who should love you most only see you as a means to an end? Or is it finally time to put myself first?