«Honey, use mom’s card. She’s got like $130,000 saved up.» I heard my son Edward’s voice from the living room, and it felt like the floor was opening up under my feet. I was in the kitchen preparing lunch. My hands were covered in flour when those words cut through the wall and hit me in the chest like a closed fist. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.
My own son, the child I carried for nine months, the one I nursed and raised alone after his father left us, was handing my bank card over to Grace, his wife, as if it were his. As if that $130,000, which cost me 40 years of work, of ruined knees from scrubbing other people’s floors, of tired eyes from sewing until dawn, belonged to him. I dropped the rolling pin on the counter and stood there paralyzed, my heart beating so hard I could hear it in my ears.
«Are you sure, sweetie? She won’t get mad?» Grace asked in that sweet voice she used when she wanted something, a voice I knew all too well after 15 years of watching her manipulate my son.
«My mom won’t say a thing. She lives here for free, eats our food, uses our utilities. It’s the least she can do to help us out a little. Besides, she’s old now. What does she need all that money saved for? We have expenses.»
«We have a life ahead of us,» Edward replied, and every word was like a knife twisting in my back. I stood there, staring at the dough on the counter, feeling the tears welling up, but I held them back. I wasn’t going to cry.
Not anymore. I had cried enough in this house over the last 20 years, ever since Edward convinced me to sell my little house to help him with the down payment on this property that he now claimed was his alone. «Free,» he had said.
I lived for free in the house I helped buy. I ate for free from the food I cooked every day. I used for free the utilities I paid for with my $500 monthly pension, which I handed over in full every month, not keeping a single cent for myself.
I heard Grace’s footsteps approaching the door, the jingle of her purse, the car keys. She was heading to the mall with my card in her hand, with the pin Edward had given her, with access to every dollar I had ever sweat for.
«I’m off to the mall, Josephine. Need anything?» she yelled from the living room, with that fake kindness she used in front of Edward, as if we were friends, as if she hadn’t taken my son from me, piece by piece, all these years.
«No, dear, thank you,» I replied, with the firmest voice I could manage, without turning around, without letting her see my face. I heard the door close, the car engine start, the sound fading down the street.
I sat down in a kitchen chair and looked at my hands. Sixty-eight-year-old hands, full of wrinkles and spots, hands that had worked without rest since I was fourteen. I remembered every single one of those $130,000.
Every bill had a story, a sacrifice, a surrender. The first $10,000 I saved working as a seamstress in a workshop where I started at six in the morning and left at eight at night, six days a week. Twenty dollars a day that I kept in an envelope under my mattress.
It took me three years to save that first $10,000, eating rice and beans almost every day, without buying even a new pair of shoes. Another $20,000 came from the extra cleaning jobs I did on Sundays, the only day I was supposed to rest. Huge houses of rich families who paid me $50 for eight hours of work.
I cleaned three houses every Sunday. $150 that I saved completely without spending a dime. The rest came from years and years of having no life of my own, of not buying clothes, not going to the salon, not eating out at restaurants, of saying no to everything that cost money.
While other women my age went on trips with their friends or treated themselves, I was counting pennies and putting them in the bank account I opened 30 years ago. And for what? To have my own place someday, a small, modest apartment where no one could tell me I was living for free, where I could close my door and be the master of my own space, my peace, my life.
That was all I wanted. It wasn’t much to ask for after 68 years in this world. But now my son, my own son, had just handed over my card as if it were his, as if I didn’t exist, as if my life and my effort were worth nothing.
Edward walked into the kitchen with his phone in his hand, not even looking at me. He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the refrigerator. «Is lunch almost ready, Mom? I have a meeting at three, and I need to eat quick,» he said in that tone he used lately, a tone that wasn’t a question but a command.
«Almost,» I replied, getting up to continue with the dough, though my legs felt shaky.
«Hey, Mom, Grace went to the mall. We needed a few things for the house,» he said without looking up from his phone, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
I didn’t answer. I kept kneading, pressing the dough harder than necessary, feeling the anger and pain mixing in my chest.
«Did you hear what I said?» Edward asked, now looking at me.
«Yes, I heard,» I said without turning.
«And any problem?» There was irritation in his voice now, as if I were the one doing something wrong.
I turned and looked him in the eyes, those eyes that used to look at me with love, with respect, with admiration. Now all I saw was impatience and annoyance. «Should I have a problem?» I asked, staying calm, even though inside I was a volcano about to erupt.
«No, of course not. It’s just some things for the house. Besides, Mom, you live here. It’s normal for you to help with expenses from time to time,» he said, and went back to his phone as if the conversation was over.
«Help with expenses.» He said that as if I didn’t give him my entire pension every month, as if I didn’t cook, clean, wash, and iron for the whole family without being paid a dollar, as if I hadn’t dedicated the last twenty years of my life to serving them.
«I understand,» was all I said, and I returned to my dough.
Edward left the kitchen, and I stood there looking out the window at the small garden that I tended myself. The roses I planted, the grass I watered every morning, the tomatoes growing in the corner—all in a house that my son said was his alone. In that moment, I made a decision.
I was not going to stand by and watch them steal the only thing I had left. I was not going to let Grace spend in one day what took me forty years to save. And I was definitely not going to continue living in a house where I was treated like a maid and not a mother.
I finished preparing lunch, wiped my hands on my apron, and went straight to my room. I locked the door, took out my old phone, and dialed the bank’s number, which I knew by heart. I waited through the rings with a racing heart.
«National Bank. Good morning. This is Linda. How can I help you?» a friendly voice answered.
«Good morning. I need to block my debit card immediately,» I said in a firm voice.
«Can you confirm your full name and account number, please?» the operator asked professionally.
I gave her all my information, answered the security questions, confirmed my date of birth, and my address. Every second that passed, I felt my heart beat faster, as if I were committing a crime, when in reality I was just protecting what was mine.
«I understand, Mrs. Josephine. Was there a problem with the card? Did you lose it, or was it stolen?» the operator asked.
«Let’s just say someone has it without my authorization,» I replied, choosing my words carefully.
«Perfect. I am now blocking the card immediately. From this moment on, no one will be able to make any transactions with it. Would you like us to send a new card to your home address?» Linda from the bank explained.
«Yes, please, but don’t send it to this address. I’ll pick it up in person at the branch next week,» I said, thinking fast. I didn’t want Edward or Grace to intercept my new card.
«No problem, Mrs. Josephine. Your card was blocked at 11:25 in the morning. Is there anything else I can help you with?» the operator asked.
«No, that’s everything. Thank you very much,» I said, and hung up the phone with trembling hands.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the twin bed Edward had given me when I moved into this house, telling me the room was small, and a larger bed wouldn’t fit. I looked around my room.
Ten feet by ten feet. A bed, a small closet, a nightstand. This was my entire space in a four-bedroom house.
Grace had a full walk-in closet for herself, bigger than my entire room. Edward had his private office where no one was allowed to enter.
There was a TV room, a formal dining room they only used when guests came over, and I lived in the smallest room, the one that was originally the pantry.
But I hadn’t complained. I never complained. Because he was my son, because I loved him, because I thought that one day he would see me as his mother again, and not as a burden.
How naive I was. I heard Edward’s phone ring in the living room, his voice answering, then silence. Then his voice got louder, more agitated.
«What do you mean it’s blocked? That’s impossible. My mom never blocks anything. She doesn’t even know how to use those bank things,» Edward said, and I could hear the frustration in his tone.
I stayed still, holding my breath, listening. «Grace, wait, let me call my mom,» Edward said, and seconds later he was knocking on my door. «Mom, are you in there? I need to talk to you urgently.»
«Coming,» I said, waiting a few seconds before opening the door, pretending I was busy. I opened it, and there was Edward with the phone in his hand, with that anxious expression he got when things didn’t go his way.
«Mom, Grace just called me from the mall. She says your card isn’t working, that it’s showing as blocked. Did you block it?» he asked directly, without beating around the bush.
