It was my daughter’s birthday, and I arrived early at her house carrying her favorite cake. I knocked on the door with a smile, excited to see her face light up the way it did when she was little. But when the door opened, her eyes were full of irritation, as if she didn’t even want to see me.
“Oh, it’s you, Mom,” she said flatly, not even looking me in the eye.
Before I go on, make sure to follow the channel and tell me in the comments where you’re listening from. My name is Olivia Mitchell, and I’m 74 years old. It warms my heart to know how far these stories travel.
Even now, I can still remember the scent of almonds and chocolate from that French cake Elena loved. It was her 43rd birthday, and I had spent three months of my pension savings just to buy that exquisite French cake she loved so much. I paid $880—money I really didn’t have—but I didn’t mind spending it if it meant seeing her smile.
The taxi dropped me off in front of the mansion I had helped her buy five years earlier: a three-story house in the most luxurious area of Santa Barbara, complete with an infinity pool overlooking the ocean. I had contributed $90,000 to it—savings from 38 years of teaching at a local college, plus tutoring and weekend jobs. I adjusted my turquoise dress, which I had bought especially for the occasion, and held the cake carefully in one hand and a small silver gift box in the other.
Inside was a pearl necklace that had belonged to my mother. Three generations of strong women, I thought, a meaningful gift to pass down.
I stepped inside, balancing the cake and the small gift box, already feeling like I didn’t belong in that house. No hug, no kiss. I felt like a delivery person.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” I said, trying to keep my voice cheerful. “I brought your favorite cake and a special gift.”
Elena sighed as if my presence was a burden she had to endure. “Just put it on the kitchen counter. I have to finish this call.”
I walked alone to the marble-tiled kitchen—part of the renovation I had paid for—and gently set the cake on the counter. Through the window, I could see the 11-year-old twins swimming with their instructor. Neither of them noticed me.
I stood there, listening to the hollow silence of the house, feeling like an intruder in a place where I no longer belonged.
Fifteen minutes later, Elena came into the kitchen. She looked flawless as always: perfectly dyed hair, subtle makeup, glossy nails. All of it funded by the loan I had given her eight years ago to open her beauty clinic—$170,000 I secured by mortgaging my own condo, a loan that had never been repaid.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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