My son is Michael. He had just turned 22 last month, and I thought we had passed the turbulent teenage years. Little did I know, a storm was brewing right under my nose.
While I was preparing lunch in the kitchen, Michael stormed in, his face twisted with frustration.
“Mom, we need to talk,” he said, his tone unusually serious.
I turned to him and said, “Sure, what’s on your mind, honey?”
He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I need a car.”
