At what age should parents stop helping their children move? (Asking for a friend.)

I’m not one to brag but I’ve got an active side hustle. This side hustle even involves going to California. I see that as the bonus. On the downside, the side hustle requires an abundance of physical labor and I have to cover my own travel expenses.

If by now you’re thinking that this side hustle sounds a little bit sketchy, you would be right. Because I’m losing money doing this “job.” In fact, I think I’m being hustled by my side hustle. Even worse it’s a family member who’s hustling me.

My daughter, to be exact. Apparently, I can’t say no to her whenever she makes an announcement that she’s moving — again — and needs help. Her ability to make moving sound like a mother/daughter bonding extravaganza is truly one of her gifts.

This last time she really laid it on thick. Her persuasive charm was off the charts as she told me that she didn’t really need me to actually help her move but rather to provide my design insight since I have “such amazing taste.”

Of course, I knew I was being conned, and yet I couldn’t say no. She was speaking my love language — which is a call for help wrapped up in a luscious compliment. I had a flight booked to California five minutes after we got off the phone.

When I informed my husband that I was helping our daughter move for the sixth time in six years he sighed and repeated what I’m going to call his mantra: “How much is this going to cost me?”

I then repeated my mantra: “Probably more than you think.”

You see I had a plan for this move and it involved my daughter selling any of her furniture items that were held together with Gorilla Glue. I told her it was time that she started investing in some pieces that are going to last for the next decade.

Also, having almost zero furniture meant that we didn’t need movers, which was a huge cost savings and meant more money to spend on new furniture. This, I figured, would make the degree of difficulty for the move close to zero.

My joy, my zeal, my level of enthusiasm left as soon as we arrived at her apartment. There was so much stuff to move. I knew moving the dresser would probably kill both of us if we attempted to do it ourselves.

When I told my daughter my fear that death awaited us, she gave me a pep talk and said it was doable, especially if we took the drawers out and moved them separately. I rallied, did some stretches and said, “Then let’s do this.”

Those right there could be the four dumbest words I’ve ever spoken. Not only did lifting this beast require Incredible Hulk strength, but we had to carry it down a spiral staircase and I, the old woman, was the one walking backward down the stairs.

My daughter kept on shouting words of encouragement, like, “Mom, just think about seeing the ocean. I promise we can go as soon as we’re done.”

I pictured a beautiful beach at Crystal Cove while I cursed, then segued to prayer and finally took to manifesting that we made it down the staircase alive. When we finally got the dresser in her car, and it barely fit, I told her it was beach time.

She looked at me and groaned, “We have to get the dresser to my new apartment first.”

I gave her a glance that must have scared her because she immediately amended her statement and said, “Whatever you say, Mom.”

And those right there are my four favorite words.

Reach Sherry Kuehl at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com, on Facebook at Snarky in the Suburbs, on Twitter at @snarkynsuburbs on Instagram @snarky.in.the.suburbs, and snarkyinthesuburbs.com.