I never thought that the day my daughter became a millionaire, she’d look at me as if I were nothing but a burden. I stood outside her gleaming new mansion, rain pouring down, mascara streaking my cheeks. The storm didn’t break me.
Her voice did.
“You’ll never see a penny of my money, you old hag!”
A moment later, my suitcase hi:t the concrete with a dull thud. The one I had collected so carefully that morning, believing foolishly that wealth might finally bring us closer. Instead, it burst open across her spotless entryway, spilling my folded clothes onto the floor. My toothbrush rolled into the gutter, like it knew it had no place there anymore.
She didn’t move. She didn’t even blench. Behind her, her new boyfriend grimaced, arms crossed. He was barely older than her eldest son. The mansion still smelled of fresh paint, the “sold” sign not yet eliminated.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I simply stood in the rain, letting it soak into my gray hair. Thank God her children weren’t there to see their grandmother tossed out like garbage.
“You’re a parasite,” she spat. “I worked hard for this. I won’t support you.”
Worked hard? My jaw gripped. I was the one who paid her rent for years, who raised her kids while she jumped from job to job, who offered my retirement so she could “begin fresh” again and again. But I said nothing. Not yet.
I collected my things from the wet ground, my hands shaking—not from weakness, but from rage and cold. She thought I’d crawl away in shame. She didn’t know she had made a mistake. A small mistake, but one that would cost her everything.
