I was emotional. Pregnant women say things. Yes, I replied, still pleasant.

And sometimes those things are exactly what they mean. So this is revenge, she spat. You’re tallying up what you think I owe you for being my mother? Not at all.

Think of it as a baby gift, a legacy, really. A detailed history of generosity for you to pass down to your son. You’re unbelievable, she said, her voice cracking.

I’m hanging up. Before you do, I added gently, you might want to tell Michael to check his mail tomorrow. She hung up.

I returned to my roses, the sun warming my shoulders. Churchill stretched lazily at my feet. And for the first time in years, I felt weightless.

The next day, Michael received his own delivery. It was similar to Cassie’s a financial records, dates, totals. But it also included something more.

Printed emails, texts, conversations between him and Cassie, discussing the mom situation. Jokes about my emotional neediness. Warnings to keep their kids away from me.

Plans to exclude me quietly, without confrontation. Frank Delaney had done excellent work. Michael, as always, had been sloppy with his passwords.

His call came in the evening. His voice was quiet, controlled. Mom, what are you doing? Hello, Michael.

Did you get something interesting in the mail? A long pause. This isn’t like you. No? I asked, truly curious.

What am I like then? Another pause. You forgive, you let things go. Ah, I said, tasting the soup I was cooking.

And how has that worked out for me? He didn’t answer. And for once, I didn’t need him to. The next morning, two identical manila envelopes arrived at Cassie’s and Michael’s homes.

Inside each was a copy of my new will dated the day after the baby shower. It was clear. Unapologetic.

50% of my estate my home, savings, life insurance would go to the local animal shelter where I volunteered. 25% would fund scholarships for single mothers at the nearby community college. And the remaining 25%.

A trust, reserved for any grandchild, who chose to contact me after turning 18. There was nothing for Cassie. Nothing for Michael.

D. I also included documentation of the irrevocable trust I had set up, one that made it nearly impossible to contest the will. I had learned my lesson. Thoroughly.

Cassie called, screaming. I let it go to voicemail. Michael texted, we need to talk.

I didn’t reply. Instead, I prepared the final delivery. This one was heavier, symbolic.

Three large boxes, delivered with care, addressed to each of my children. They contained photo albums, baby books, art projects, birthday cards, school awards. All the evidence that I had been a present, loving mother.

That I had shown up, documented, cared. But there was one difference. Everywhere my name had once appeared to Mom Live Elizabeth, proud parent, Ellie Harmon I had replaced it.

Digitally. Permanently. With the name Patricia Reynolds.

Each photo where I had stood proudly beside them first days of school, piano recitals, science fairs had been edited. My image carefully removed, replaced with Patricia’s elegant, silver-haired figure. The woman Cassie had said she wished had raised her.

Three hours later, Cassie appeared at my door. She was red-eyed, holding one of the altered boxes like it might shatter in her hands. Michael followed closely behind.

I opened the door, blocking the threshold. Cassie didn’t even say hello. How could you do this? She demanded.

These were our memories. Were they? I asked calmly. You seemed to prefer Patricia in them.

Michael looked around the living room, confused. It had changed. I had taken down all their photos, packed away their knickknacks.