I barely slept for days. I went to work, scrubbed dishes, came home, and replayed that conversation over and over. Every word felt like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.
By the time Saturday came — my sixtieth birthday — I had made up my mind.
Max ran over with a crayon drawing — three stick figures holding hands. “That’s you, me, and Rover!” he said proudly.
“Oh, we don’t have a dog,” Lila corrected gently.
“But Grandma wants one,” Max whispered, smiling.
Thomas chuckled. “Mom can’t handle a dog. She struggles enough with herself.”
That was enough. I stood slowly, steadying my voice. “Let’s have cake,” I said. “But first, a toast.”
I lifted my cup. “To family,” I said. “To those we love.”
They echoed, “To family!”
Then I spoke the words I’d rehearsed in my mind all week.
Their smiles faltered.
“But I learned something recently,” I continued. “Daycare only costs five hundred.”
Thomas’s face drained of color. Lila’s hand froze mid-air.
“So every month, you’ve taken three hundred from me — lied about it — and even planned to rent out my room. You laughed about a nursing home for me. Tell me, how could you do that to the woman who gave up everything for you?”
“Mom, please,” Thomas stammered. “We can explain—”
“Explain what?” I asked quietly. “How you turned love into an opportunity?”
Lila’s voice sharpened. “You were eavesdropping!”
