Double shifts, overnight calls, holidays when everyone else was home with loved ones—I was always on duty. I saved carefully, bought my little house at 50, and slowly built a retirement fund. Nothing fancy, but enough to let me breathe.
My son, who is now 44, used to be kind, thoughtful even. But somewhere along the line, I stopped being “Mom” and became something else entirely—a walking wallet. His wife, Maya, is polite but keeps me at arm’s length, and the grandkids mostly remember me when there’s a card with money or a holiday gift involved.
Over the years, I helped them in every way I could. I paid for a chunk of their home renovation, loaned money that was never repaid, and even gifted them a family vacation when they said they “needed a break.” But when I had a bad fall last year and asked for a little help getting through the first week, my son’s response was, “You can afford to hire someone.”
This year for my birthday, I invited them for a simple dinner. Nothing fancy—just a home-cooked meal and a bit of company.
Before they left, my son handed me an envelope and said, “Open it when you’re alone.” I smiled, thinking maybe it was a heartfelt card. Later that night, I opened it. It wasn’t a card at all.
It was a spreadsheet titled “Mom’s Property and Market Value.” Every possession I own—my house, jewelry, even my small stock portfolio—had notes about who should get what. Everything neatly itemized like I was a storage unit they were planning to empty. I cried.
Not because they wanted my things, but because it hit me—they don’t love me. They love what I can give. Two weeks later, I invited them again.
This time, I calmly read my new will. Everything I own will go to the elder care home I volunteer with. My son turned crimson, Maya froze, and the grandkids didn’t even look up from their phones.
I haven’t heard from them since. And strangely… I feel lighter. But sometimes, late at night, I still wonder—did I go too far?
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