I’m glad you’re here with me. Please like this video and listen to my story till the end, and let me know which city you’re listening from. That way, I can see how far my story has traveled.
For 32 years, I worked as a senior financial analyst at Morrison Incline. My salary was $60,000 annually. Not a fortune, but comfortable. I lived modestly in my two-bedroom house in suburban Cleveland, drove a reliable Toyota, and never flaunted what I had.
My daughter, Rebecca, never asked about my finances, and I never volunteered the information. Why would I? Money talks were always awkward in our family.
Rebecca married Derek three years ago. He worked in sales, always wore expensive watches, and talked loudly about his deals. I smiled politely during family dinners, even when he dominated conversations with stories about clients and commissions. My daughter seemed happy, and that was enough for me.
The first troubling sign came six months ago. Rebecca called, her voice tight with stress. “Mom, could you help us with the down payment? Just $5,000. Derek’s commission got delayed.” I transferred the money the next day—no questions asked. Isn’t that what mothers do?
Two months later, another call. “Mom, Derek’s car broke down. We need $3,000 for repairs.” I sent it immediately.
Then came the request for $2,000 for Rebecca’s medical bills. Each time, I noticed Derek’s new golf clubs in their garage, the designer handbags Rebecca carried, the expensive dinners they posted on social media. But I said nothing. Perhaps I was being judgmental.
Last month, they invited me for Sunday dinner. I arrived at their McMansion—a house far too large for two people—carrying homemade apple pie. Derek greeted me at the door, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“Margaret, come in. Come in.” He glanced at my ten-year-old Toyota. “Still driving that old thing.”
During dinner, Derek dominated the conversation as usual. He talked about his latest sale, a luxury car. He was considering a vacation to Cancun. They were planning. Rebecca nodded along, but I noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way she picked at her food.
Then Derek leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand, and looked at me with something like pity. “You know, Margaret, Rebecca and I have been talking. We’re worried about you.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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