What would you do if your mom demanded $150,000 just for raising you?

My mom showed up at my apartment asking for her share. Growing up, my brother Andrew was the golden child. When he was 14, he crashed mom's car into our mailbox while texting. Mom's response? "Accidents happen, honey. Insurance will cover it." I got grounded for two weeks when I brought home a B+ in chemistry.
Every weekend, Andrew got shopping trips for new clothes. I wore hand-me-downs from cousins. When college acceptance letters arrived, my full-ride scholarship got a "that's nice" while Andrew's acceptance to some expensive private school got a Facebook post and a party. Mom posted about Andrew 47 times that week.
College was brutal for me. I lived off ramen noodles and worked three jobs just to survive. Andrew? Mom paid his rent, gave him a credit card with no limit, and sent weekly care packages. I was studying engineering, pulling all-nighters in a closet-sized dorm. Andrew was majoring in communications and partying four nights a week.
Then Andrew dropped out after two years. "Too stressed," he said. That degree cost $86,000. Mom's response was understanding and supportive. Andrew moved back home rent-free while I graduated with honors and started working 60-hour weeks.
Fast forward eight years. I'm 28, working as a project manager at a tech company, finally making six figures. I bought myself a nice apartment downtown. Meanwhile, Andrew is 30, still at home, trying to launch his tenth failed business idea. This time it's artisan candles with healing crystals.
That's when the calls started. Mom asking about my salary, making comments about successful children supporting their parents. Andrew texting about business loans and investment opportunities. I ignored the warning signs.
Last Sunday morning, they showed up at 9 AM. No text. No warning. Just knocked on my door.
Mom pushed past me before I could even say hello. She walked around my apartment like she was appraising everything, touching my furniture, checking out my TV, running her fingers along my countertops.
"You've done very well for yourself," she said. Not smiling. Just observing.
Andrew flopped on my couch and immediately started scrolling through his phone. Didn't even look at me.
Then mom sat down at my kitchen table and pulled out a folder. An actual folder with papers inside. She opened it like we were having a business meeting.
"I've been thinking about family obligations," she started. "I calculated everything I spent raising you. Diapers, food, clothes, school supplies, medical bills, housing costs. It comes to $152,000. I kept every receipt."
She showed me spreadsheets. Color-coded by category. Organized by year. She was completely serious.
"Plus, Andrew's got an amazing business opportunity with his candle company," mom continued. "He just needs about $50,000 to get started properly. With your income and connections, this should be easy."
I sat there. Just listening. Watching her present her case like she'd been rehearsing it for weeks.
Andrew chimed in. "This is your chance to finally be a good brother. To actually contribute to this family for once."
Mom pulled out the big guilt trip. "Your father would have wanted you to take care of us. Family takes care of family. That's what he always said."
I let her finish her entire presentation. Watched her point to different lines on her spreadsheets. Heard Andrew talk about how this candle business was going to change everything. Listened to mom explain payment plans and timelines.
Then I pulled out my phone.
"You want to talk about receipts?" I said calmly. "Let me show you something."
I opened my Venmo app. Started scrolling.
"See this transaction? That's $800 when Andrew's car broke down two years ago. Here's $1,200 for your furnace repair last winter. This one? $500 for Andrew's dental work. Here's $600 for your property taxes. This $2,000? That was Andrew's photography business loan that lasted three months before he quit."
I kept scrolling. The list went on and on.
"Want me to keep going? Because I've got eight years of transactions here. $300 for your car insurance. $450 for Andrew's phone bill. $900 when your roof leaked. $1,500 for Andrew's marketing course that he never finished."
Mom's face was turning red.
"Total amount I've sent you over the last eight years? $47,000. That's not including the laptop I bought Andrew, the phone plan I pay for that you use, or the monthly grocery deliveries I have sent to your house."
Dead silence. Andrew had stopped scrolling on his phone.
"So let me understand this correctly," I said. "You want $152,000 for doing your job as a parent for 18 years. That's what parents do. They raise their kids. But apparently, my $47,000 over eight years as an adult, given voluntarily because I love you, means absolutely nothing?"
Mom stood up. "That's different—"
"No, it's not different," I said. "You want to treat this like a business transaction? Fine. Let's do business. I'm done bein