When I returned from my trip, my belongings were dumped on the lawn with a note: “If you want to stay, move into the basement.” So I moved into my secret apartment—and stopped paying. Six months later, they knocked on my door and asked if they wanted to move in.

My name is Zoya and I'm 29. Two years ago, my life took a turn I never expected.
I was living in a rental apartment, working as a software developer, earning a decent living, and enjoying my independence. Then my parents called me with the one conversation no one ever wants to have.

"Zoya, we need to talk," my mother said on the phone, her voice strained and tired. "Can you come over tonight?"

When I arrived at their house, my parents were both sitting at the kitchen table, papers scattered everywhere. My father looked older than his age, 58, and my mother was wringing her hands, as she always did when she felt stressed.

“What’s going on?” I asked, sitting down across from them.

Dad cleared his throat. "I had to quit my job last month. My back problems got worse, and I can't work in construction anymore. I've been looking for something else, but nothing pays well enough."

I knew my father had health problems, but I didn't realize how bad it had become.

"We can't pay the mortgage," Mom continued, her voice slightly trembling. "I still work at the supermarket, but it's only part-time. We're making maybe $1,200 a month now, and the mortgage alone is $1,800."

Then they asked me to come back home and help with the bills. They were afraid of losing the house they'd lived in for twenty years. I looked around: the kitchen where I'd had breakfast every day as a child, the living room where we watched movies, the backyard where my father taught me to ride a bike.