After my 24-year-old son moved back home post-breakup, his four-month stay turned my house into a hotel. He slept late, dodged chores, and called my requests for help stressful. Frustrated, I changed the Wi-Fi password, packed a bag, and stayed at a friend’s for a break. He barely noticed, texting only “Ok” when I said I needed space. Returning to a messy house, I gave him a week to plan his next steps, insisting he wasn’t a permanent

guest. He stormed off but soon applied for jobs and vacuumed—small shifts. I found his unsent letters in the attic, revealing his hidden pain from the breakup. Over dinner, he admitted shutting down to avoid my fixing things. We reached an understanding: love doesn’t mean carrying him. He got a job, moved out, and later invited me to his tiny apartment, where he’d framed a letter to his future self: “You’re doing okay. Keep going.” Parenting evolves—you stop holding hands and start holding space. Changing the Wi-Fi password and stepping away wasn’t anger; it was love, giving him room to step up. Sometimes, letting go is the greatest gift.