"Mom, the annual recap is full of my whereabouts and personal preferences. That's private. If you're so bored, go do your line dancing."

Lola panicked and started with the whole routine—crying, making a scene, threatening to throw herself off the balcony:

"My life is so bitter! Every day I go to the farmers market to pick up discounted vegetables, stretching every dollar, all to save up a nest egg for your little family! What's wrong with me asking you to show a bill? I'm afraid you'll be brainwashed by those influencers and spend the whole family's savings away!"

"Now your wings have hardened—you look down on an old woman like me, don't you? You think I'm meddling too much?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my brain.

Here we go again.

Packaging control as "it's for your own good," and calling invasion of privacy "I'm just looking out for you."

I sneered and @-mentioned my husband and father-in-law, who were lurking and watching the show.

"Fine, Mom. Since we're being honest with each other, let's do it thoroughly."

"To be fair, let Dad and Alex go first. Screenshot their browser history and send it in the group chat."

"As long as they dare to send it, I'll follow immediately—even if I have to show the receipt for my tampons."

"@Lola Lawrence Mom, go ahead and push them first?"

The group chat went dead silent.

I knew it—she only liked singling me out to feel important.

I thought of three years ago, when Lola had just switched to a smartphone.

Back then she didn't even know how to send a voice message. I sat on the couch and taught her hand-in-hand for an entire afternoon.

How to download Amazon, how to claim Uber Eats coupons, how to snag deals on Temu.

Back then, she smiled and tugged my hand. "Maya's always been the most thoughtful—puts those two grown men to shame."

To make shopping easier for her, I set her up with a linked payment account on my card. Two-thousand-dollar monthly limit.

I figured an elderly woman buying groceries and household basics wouldn't need more than that.

But it wasn't just the card.

I pulled up my own order history.

Peanut oil, two jugs—shipped to my in-laws' place.

Premium rice, two fifty-pound bags—same address.

Toilet paper, laundry detergent, even the medicated patches for her rheumatism.

Every single item ordered through my account, delivered straight to their door.