The next morning, something inside me had changed. It wasn’t just the pain of betrayal but something deeper, colder. I stood up and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror—tired eyes, wrinkles telling stories of giving love without receiving it back. But there was a new hardness in my gaze, a determination buried under years of compliance.
I made coffee as I had every morning for forty years. This time, I didn’t think about calling Max to ask how he slept or check my phone for an apology. For the first time in a long time, I was my own first concern of the day.
I sat at the table where I had planned surprises for them, counted bills for their expenses, and cried silently over their indifference. Now, this table would witness something different. I took out my checkbook and bank statements and started calculating.
The monthly rent of $500 for 36 months was $18,000. Food and supplies, about $200 a month, added another $7,200. Birthday, Christmas, and anniversary gifts totaled at least $3,000.
Lena’s medical emergencies cost $800, the unpaid car loan was $2,500, the air conditioner repair in their apartment was $600, and the living room furniture was $1,200. The total was $33,400—the exact sum of my generosity. That was the money I had taken from my husband’s inheritance, my pension, and decades of honest work, all to keep two adults comfortable who couldn’t even pretend to respect me.
The phone rang, displaying Max’s name. Normally, my heart would have pounded as I rushed to answer, hoping for an apology or an explanation. This time, I let it ring once, twice, three times, until it fell silent, and I continued drinking my coffee as if nothing had happened.
Ten minutes later, it rang again—Lena this time. I let it ring too. Then a text came from Max: “Mom, please answer. We need to talk.” I deleted the message without replying.
At 2:00 p.m., I went for a walk, something I hadn’t done in months without a purpose tied to them. It was always the bank for transfers, the supermarket for their needs, or the pharmacy for Lena’s medications. Today, I walked just because I wanted to.
I passed the park where I had taken Max as a child. I remembered the sweet boy who hugged me tightly and called me the best mom in the world. When had he become this man who treated me like an ATM with feelings? When had I started confusing love with money, believing I had to buy my son’s affection?
At the bank where I had made countless transfers, I stopped in front of the door. The branch manager, Mr. Klein, saw me through the glass and waved. He had processed every transfer to Max and Lena, watching my account drain month after month.
I walked into his office. “Mr. Klein,” I said, “I need to cancel the automatic transfers I have programmed.” He looked surprised; for three years, those transfers had been as regular as the sunrise.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Richter? Did something happen?” His concern was more genuine than any interest Max had shown in months. “What happened is that I finally opened my eyes,” I replied.
“I want to cancel everything and get information on protecting my accounts. I don’t want anyone else to have access to my money.” While Mr. Klein processed the cancellations, my phone kept ringing—Max, Lena, Max again—as if they sensed their income source was in danger. I turned it off completely.
“Mrs. Richter,” Mr. Klein said as he handed me the papers, “I apologize for intruding, but I’ve seen you be very generous with your family. I hope you’re not being pressured to make these changes.” His words touched me deeply; this man, who barely knew me beyond transactions, showed more concern than my own son.
“I’m not being pressured, Mr. Klein. On the contrary, I’ve finally stopped pressuring myself.” When I left the bank, I felt strangely light, as if I had left an enormous burden behind.
For the first time in years, my money was entirely mine. I had no financial obligations to people who saw me as a resource instead of a person. I thought about the trips I hadn’t taken, the friends I no longer saw, the hobbies I had abandoned because every dollar spent on myself was one less for their needs.
When I got home, I found three cars parked in front of my door: Max’s, Lena’s, and one I didn’t recognize. Through the windows, I saw movement inside my house. My blood ran cold—they had keys I had given them, trusting they would one day care for me as I had for them.
I took a deep breath before opening the door. It was time for the first real confrontation of my new life. Inside, I saw a scene I’ll never forget.
Max sat on my sofa, head in his hands. Lena paced like a caged animal, and an older man I didn’t know was going through papers on my dining table—my personal documents. “What is happening here?” I asked in a voice louder than I expected.
All three looked at me as if I were the intruder. Lena spoke first, her voice carrying the desperate urgency I’d heard on the phone. “Renate, thank God you’re here. We need to talk. Mr. Fisher is from the law firm we consulted about your situation.”
“My situation?” I asked, my voice calm but firm. “What situation? I’m doing perfectly fine.”
Max lifted his head, his eyes reflecting financial panic rather than the innocence of the child I once knew. “Mom, we went to the bank, and they told us you canceled all the transfers. Mr. Klein said you blocked our access to your accounts. We don’t understand why you did that.”
Mr. Fisher, a man in his fifties with a gray suit and an untrustworthy smile, approached with an outstretched hand. “Mrs. Richter, I’m Dr. Fisher, a family law attorney. Your children are concerned about your mental well-being and have asked me to assess the situation.”
I didn’t shake his hand. Instead, I went to the dining table and collected my documents. “These are my private papers. You have no right to look at them without my consent.”
“Mom,” Max interjected in a condescending tone, “we’re worried about you. Your behavior has been strange lately—cutting us off financially without explanation, not answering our calls. We think you might need professional help.”
Lena approached, trying to take my hand with fake tenderness. “Renate, honey, we know you’re under stress. Maybe the loneliness is affecting you more than you think. At your age, episodes of confusion are normal.”
The word “confusion” echoed like an alarm bell. I realized why they had brought the lawyer—not to help me, but to declare me mentally incompetent and take control of my finances. The same woman who said I wasn’t special enough for their wedding now treated me like a senile old lady.
“I am not confused,” I said firmly, silencing them. “I am clearer than I have been in years, and you are going to leave my house right now.”
Mr. Fisher interjected with a lawyer’s reasonable tone. “Mrs. Richter, I understand you feel overwhelmed, but your children have a right to intervene if they believe your financial decisions are impaired. They’ve documented concerning behaviors.”
“Concerning behaviors?” I laughed, a hoarse, almost cruel sound. “Like deciding my money belongs to me? Or no longer financing the lives of adults who treat me like trash?”
Lena jumped as if slapped. “We never treated you badly! You’re part of our family. Everything you have will belong to us one day anyway. We’re just speeding up the process.”
There it was—the naked truth. In their minds, I was already dead, and they were collecting their inheritance early. It didn’t matter if I had seventy years or seventy days left; I was just an ATM with legs that had become problematic.
“Out,” I said, pointing to the door. “All three of you, get out of my house.”
Max stood, his face angry like a child denied his way. “Mom, we can’t just leave. We have obligations—the rent, the car payments, the credit card you co-signed for. You can’t cut us off like this.”
“I can’t?” My voice rose for the first time. “Who says I can’t? For years, I’ve paid rent that wasn’t in my name, filled a refrigerator in a house where I wasn’t welcome, financed a life that had no place for me.”
Mr. Fisher took a folder from his briefcase. “Mrs. Richter, we’ve prepared documents to facilitate this transition—a power of attorney to allow Max and Lena to manage your finances efficiently. This would be temporary until you feel better.”
I took the folder and threw it into the trash without opening it. “The only transition happening here is yours to the front door.”
Lena started crying—tears of frustration, not sadness. “You can’t do this to us, Renate. We were counting on you. We made plans based on your support.”
“Obligations based on my money,” I replied. “Not my well-being, not my happiness, not my company—just my money. And now that I’ve decided my money is better used for my life, I’m suddenly a confused old woman needing guardianship?”
Max tried to approach, but I stepped back. He was no longer the boy who ran to me when scared. He was a thirty-five-year-old man seeing his mother as an obstacle to a comfortable life.
“Mom, we made mistakes,” he said, feigning remorse. “The wedding was a misunderstanding. We can fix this if you become reasonable again.”
“Reasonable,” I repeated, the word bitter in my mouth. “Reasonable means continuing to pay for your life while you treat me like a stranger, pretending it doesn’t hurt to be excluded from my only son’s wedding.”
Mr. Fisher packed his papers efficiently. “Mrs. Richter, this isn’t over. If you’re making irrational decisions due to mental health problems, a judge can determine you need guardianship.”
