My son texted:
“Don’t call me anymore. I’m tired of you and your requests.”
I said nothing.
Two months later he called.
“Mom, my wife and I urgently need money for rent.”
My voice came out steady, almost unfamiliar.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are. I don’t have a son.”
I hung up.
If you’re still here with me, listen to my story all the way through—and tell me what city you’re listening from, so I can see how far it’s traveled.
I used to believe motherhood was forever. That no matter what storms came, the bond between mother and child would outlast them.
For sixty-three years I lived by that idea.
I raised my son, Daniel, in our modest home in Ohio, working double shifts as a nurse to give him everything he needed after his father walked out when Daniel was seven. I did the job of two parents on one weary paycheck, and I told myself it was enough—because love, surely, would make up the difference.
Daniel grew up. He went to college. He married a woman named Amber. He started his own life.
I was proud.
Wasn’t that what every mother wanted?
But somewhere along the way, the phone calls turned into requests. The visits turned into transactions.
Mom, can you help us with the down payment?
Mom, we need money for Amber’s medical bills.
Mom, just this once—for the car repair.
And I said yes.
Every single time.
What else would a mother do?
Over the years the pattern sharpened into something I refused to name. Daniel would vanish for weeks—sometimes months. No calls. No texts. No visits.
Then, suddenly, he’d reappear with that familiar tone in his voice: the one that meant he needed something.
And I would open my wallet.
I would open my heart.
Still hoping that this time he’d stay longer. That this time we’d talk about something other than money.
Last spring I called him on his birthday. Amber answered.
“He’s busy,” she said, curt as a slammed door.
I could hear Daniel laughing in the background at something on TV.
“Tell him I love him,” I said softly.
She hung up without replying.
Two weeks later I called again. I’d been feeling unwell, and my doctor had scheduled tests. I didn’t want cash or favors. I just wanted to hear my son’s voice.
This time Daniel answered, and irritation crackled in the line before he even spoke.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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