When My Son Drowned in Debt: A Mother’s Battle for Her Child

“Mom, can I borrow twenty bucks?”

The words tumbled out of Michael’s mouth so casually, as if he were asking for a glass of water. I was standing by the kitchen sink, the remnants of dinner still scattered on the counter, when he leaned in the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. He was twenty-four, tall, handsome, and still my baby—though lately, I could barely recognize him.

I hesitated, drying my hands on a dish towel. “Didn’t I just give you twenty last week?”

He rolled his eyes, his voice tight. “Yeah, but I need it for gas. I’ll pay you back.”

He never paid me back. That was the first time I really noticed it: the way my wallet seemed to empty, little by little, and the way his eyes darted away from mine when I asked how things were going. It started with a few dollars here and there, but soon the requests grew—fifty, then a hundred, then three hundred for a car payment he’d “forgotten” about. My husband, Steve, warned me to stop. “You’re enabling him, Lisa. He needs to learn.”

But how could I say no? He was my son.

The calls from credit card companies started next. At first, I’d intercept them while Michael was at work, telling them they’d reached the wrong number. But after a while, the messages grew more insistent. I found the unopened envelopes stuffed in his backpack, the red letters screaming “PAST DUE.”

One night, our living room exploded into a war zone. Steve’s voice was thunder. “Michael, you’re twenty-four years old! You have a job! Where is your money going?”

Michael’s face was a stormcloud, defensive and wounded. “God, Dad, why do you always assume the worst?”

“Because you’re sinking, son! We can’t keep bailing you out!”

I stood between them, heart pounding. “Let’s all calm down. Michael, just tell us what’s going on.”

He clammed up, gaze fixed on the carpet. “It’s nothing. Just a rough patch.”

But it wasn’t nothing. One afternoon, I found a payday loan slip crumpled up in his jacket. The interest rate was so high it made my head spin. That night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling the weight of his troubles pressing down on my chest. Where had I gone wrong? I thought I’d taught him responsibility. We’d always been a close family. But now, he was slipping away, and I couldn’t reach him.

I started digging. I checked his bank statements, his texts, his social media. The truth hit me like a train: Michael was gambling. Online sports betting, poker tournaments, casino apps—it all added up. That’s where the missing money went, where his paychecks evaporated. The debt was staggering: nearly eight thousand dollars, not counting what he owed to me and Steve.

When I confronted him, he exploded. “Why are you spying on me? I’m not a kid!”

“I just want to help!” I shouted, tears streaming down my face.

“Well, you’re not! You’re making it worse!”

He stormed out, slamming the door so hard a picture fell off the wall. I sat on the hallway floor, sobbing, as Steve came to wrap his arms around me. “We have to let him hit bottom, Lis. Otherwise, he’ll never get out.”

But I couldn’t let go. I joined an online support group for parents of kids with gambling addictions. I read stories about children stealing from their families, losing their homes, ending up on the streets. I stared at Michael’s baby pictures every night, wondering how I’d failed him.

Weeks passed in a fog. Michael kept to himself, rarely coming home, growing thinner and more brittle. The holidays came and went, strained and silent. On Christmas Eve, I found him asleep on the couch, phone clutched in his hand. His bank app was open. The balance was negative.

Sitting beside him, I brushed a hand through his hair. “Michael, please. Let us help.”

For the first time, he didn’t pull away. His voice was ragged. “I’m scared, Mom. I don’t know how to stop.”

We found a therapist together. He joined a support group. It wasn’t a miracle cure. There were relapses—money missing from my purse, angry words, slammed doors. Steve wanted to kick him out. I begged for one more chance.

Our marriage frayed. We barely spoke except to argue about Michael. “He’s tearing us apart. When is enough enough?” Steve asked one night, his face haggard. “Do you even see me anymore, Lisa? Or am I just another problem you have to fix?”

I didn’t have an answer. I was drowning too, torn between my husband and my son, between hope and despair.

Six months later, we’re still fighting. Michael’s debt has shrunk, but he’s not out of the woods. Steve and I are seeing a counselor. Some nights, I wonder if our family will ever be whole again.

But then, there are small victories—a week without a phone call from a creditor, a smile from Michael as he helps with dinner, the sound of Steve’s laughter returning, if only for a moment.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Sometimes I lie awake, haunted by the question: How do you save someone who won’t admit they’re drowning? And how much of yourself can you give before you’re lost, too?

Would you have done anything differently? What would you do if it was your child—would you let them fall, or keep reaching out your hand?