“Okay, I’ll give it to you. But under one condition!” I met her gaze steadily.
“Prove somehow that he didn’t pay you child support, that you raised me alone, and that you didn’t kick me out of the house when I was still a minor.”
Her face went through several interesting colors. “Well, but… I still raised you! Yes, maybe he contributed some money, but—”
“Maybe?” I cut her off.
“Maybe? I remember him sending you checks every month, but you spent that money on yourself. It would’ve been nice if you’d bought me even one toy!
Instead, I watched you buy designer purses while I wore shoes with holes in them.”
She started sputtering, her carefully constructed narrative crumbling. “You don’t understand! I did the best I could!
I was trying to teach you important life lessons! Everything I did was for you!”
“By throwing me out on the street?” I stood up, done with lunch and done with her games. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“You can’t just kick out your guests!” She clutched her purse to her chest, eyes wide with manufactured outrage.
“I’m your mother! You owe me respect!”
“My house, my rules,” I said, echoing her words from that night nine years ago. “Please leave.”
She tried everything: crying, pleading, threatening.
I stayed firm, showing her to the door. The last thing I saw was her standing in my driveway, mascara running down her face as she shouted about ungrateful children.
That evening, as I sat in Dad’s old armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture I’d kept from his house, the texts started coming in.
“How dare you treat me this way? The least you can do is give me a few thousand dollars.
It’s what I deserve.”
I shook my head and set my phone aside, but another text notification dinged.
“I can see you’ve read my message. Don’t ignore me, you ungrateful brat! I want what’s owed to me!
Give me the money!”
It went on and on, but I didn’t answer a single message.
I considered sending her a penny, but even that was more than she “deserved.” Eventually, I switched my phone off and curled up in the chair, inhaling the familiar scents of leather and Dad’s cologne.
For the first time since his death, I let myself cry. Not just for him but for the 15-year-old girl who’d needed a mother and got a manipulator instead. For the years of lies and guilt trips.
For all of it.
But mostly, I cried because I finally felt free.
Dad had given me that first taste of freedom when he found me at the shelter, and now, by standing up to Mom, I’d finished what he started.
Some people say you can’t choose your family. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, your family chooses you. Dad chose me.
And that was enough.
