The world seemed to tilt slightly. «Your parents are coming on the cruise?»
«We invited them, yes. They’re meeting us in Juneau. They’ve never been to Alaska, and we thought it would be nice.»
«You invited your parents to a trip I paid for, but I’m not invited myself.»
«Bob, you need to stop being so dramatic. You can’t expect us to plan our entire lives around you just because you helped us out a few times. That’s what parents do. They help their kids. It’s not some kind of transaction.»
I was quiet for a long moment. In the background, I could hear Oliver ask Michael something about packing his stuffed whale. My throat felt tight.
«Put Michael back on,» I said quietly. «Bob, put my son back on the phone. Now.» There was shuffling, muffled voices, and then Michael was back.
«Dad, listen, I’m sorry Vanessa was blunt, but she has a point. We really do think this is for the best.»
«Michael, I have one question for you, and I need you to answer me honestly. Do you actually want me on this trip, or is this entirely Vanessa’s decision?»
The silence that followed told me everything I needed to know. «I’ll cancel my ticket,» I said finally. «You three, enjoy yourselves.»
«Thanks, Dad. I knew you’d understand. And hey, we really do appreciate everything you do for us.»
«We’ll make it up to you, I promise. Maybe we can do a day trip to Niagara Falls or something when we get back.»
I ended the call without responding. For a long time, I just sat there at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. Then I picked up my laptop and started looking through my files.
I found the cruise booking confirmation. All three tickets had been booked under my name, charged to my credit card. The trip was in four weeks.
Then I opened my email and searched for messages from Michael. There were dozens from the past few months. Requests for money to fix their car. A plea for help with Oliver’s daycare costs because they’d fallen behind. A casual mention that they’d booked a weekend at a ski resort and put it on my emergency credit card that I’d given them «just for real emergencies.»
I opened my credit card statements. Dinner at upscale restaurants in Toronto. A new laptop for Michael.
Designer clothes from boutiques I’d never heard of. Thousands of dollars in charges I hadn’t authorized. All on the emergency card I’d given them for things like if their car broke down or Oliver needed a doctor.
Then I found something else. An email thread that Michael had clearly meant to delete but hadn’t. It was between him and Vanessa, from three months ago.
«Vanessa, your dad’s getting really annoying about the money. Maybe we should just cut contact after we get the house fully in our name.»
«Michael, he’s harmless. As long as we keep him thinking he’s ‘helpful’ he’ll keep paying for stuff. Once the house is ours clear, we can phase him out. My mom’s life insurance should come to me eventually anyway, right?»
«Vanessa, assuming there’s anything left after he burns through it. Did you see he bought Oliver that expensive bike? We could have gotten a cheaper one and pocketed the difference.»
«Michael, he’s useful for now. Let’s just keep him happy. The Alaska trip will probably be the last big thing we need from him.»
«Vanessa, about that… I really don’t want him on that cruise. He hovers over Oliver constantly and my parents keep asking why we can’t afford our own vacations. It’s embarrassing.»
«Michael, I’ll handle it. I’ll tell him something about it being ‘too strenuous’ for him at his age. He’ll buy it. He always does.»
I read it three times. Four times. The words kept rearranging themselves but the meaning stayed exactly the same.
My son thought I was a walking ATM machine. My daughter-in-law thought I was an embarrassment. And together they’d been planning to «phase me out» of Oliver’s life as soon as they’d squeezed enough money out of me.
I stood up from the table and walked to the window. Outside my neighbors were setting up for a barbecue. Kids were riding bikes down the street.
The world was carrying on like normal. Like my entire relationship with my son hadn’t just been revealed as a complete fraud.
I thought about Sarah. What would she say if she could see this? Would she be as blindsided as I was?
Or had she seen something in Michael that I’d missed? We’d raised him to be kind, generous, thoughtful. We taught him the value of family, of loyalty, of gratitude.
Apparently, we’d failed. Or maybe we’d succeeded too well at teaching him that family would always be there for him no matter what. That parents were an infinite resource. That their love was unconditional, so there was no need to ever earn it or maintain it.
I went back to my laptop. My hands were steady now. The shock had burned away, leaving something cold and clear and focused.
First, I logged into my credit card account. The «emergency» card I’d given Michael and Vanessa had a balance of over $32,000. I canceled it immediately.
The automated system asked if I was sure. I clicked «yes» without hesitation. Then I called the cruise line. The representative was cheerful and helpful. I explained that I needed to cancel all three tickets for the Alaska cruise.
«There would be a cancellation fee,» she explained, «since we are within six weeks of departure. About $4,000.»
«That’s fine,» I said. «Cancel them all.»
«All three? Even for the family members?»
«Especially for the family members. I’m the one who booked them. I’m the one canceling them.»
There was a pause. Then, more carefully, «Sir, I’m required to inform you that if other passengers are expecting to go on this trip and you cancel their tickets, they will need to rebook at current prices, which are significantly higher than what you originally paid.»
«I understand completely. Please proceed with the cancellation.»
After I hung up, I sat in the silence of my empty house. The cancellation confirmation email arrived within minutes. I forwarded it to Michael without any message. Then I called my bank.
«Hello, Mr. Anderson, how can I help you today?»
«I need to discuss a mortgage I co-signed three years ago. I want to remove my name from it.»
«I see. Well, that would require the other borrowers to refinance the loan independently. Do they meet the lending criteria on their own?»
«I don’t know. That’s for them to figure out.»
«Sir, if they can’t refinance and you remove your name, the bank could potentially call the loan due immediately.»
«I’m aware. Please start whatever process is necessary.»
I spent the next two hours on the phone with various departments. By the end of it, Michael and Vanessa had 30 days to either refinance the mortgage without me or sell the house. If they couldn’t do either, the bank would begin foreclosure proceedings.
It was just after six in the evening when my phone started ringing. Michael’s name flashed on the screen. I let it go to voicemail.
He called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
Then came the texts. «Dad, what the hell? The cruise got cancelled? Did you do this?»
«You can’t just cancel our vacation. Call me back now.»
Then Vanessa. «This is unbelievable. You’re acting like a child.»
«We have Oliver to think about. He was so excited for this trip.»
I turned my phone face down on the table and went back to my garage. The birdhouse for Oliver was still sitting there, half finished. I picked up the sandpaper and kept working.
The rhythmic motion was soothing, meditative. I could hear my phone buzzing inside the house again and again but I didn’t go back to check it.
When the birdhouse was finally smooth, every edge perfect, I carried it inside and set it on the kitchen counter. Then I checked my phone. 43 missed calls. 67 text messages.
I read through them all. They followed a predictable pattern. Anger. Accusations.
Attempts at manipulation. Playing the «Oliver» card. Vanessa threatening to cut off contact.
Michael saying I’d misunderstood everything. That the email was «taken out of context.» That they were «joking.»
The most recent message was from Michael. «Fine, if this is how you want to be, we’re done. Don’t expect to see Oliver anymore. You brought this on yourself.»
I stared at that message for a long time. Then I took a screenshot of the email thread I’d found. I took screenshots of the credit card statements showing all the unauthorized charges.
I documented everything. Saved it all to a folder on my computer and backed it up to a cloud drive.
Then I called a lawyer. Sarah’s brother James had been a family lawyer for 30 years before retiring. He answered on the second ring. «Bob, how are you doing?»
«I need advice, James. Legal advice. About grandparents’ rights in Ontario.»
There was a pause. «What’s going on?»
I told him everything. The email thread. The exclusion from the trip. The threats to keep Oliver away from me. He listened without interrupting.
«Bob,» he said finally, «I’m so sorry. But here’s the good news. In Ontario, grandparents can apply for access rights if it’s in the child’s best interest. Given that you’ve been a consistent presence in Oliver’s life, and you have documentation showing their motivation is financial rather than based on legitimate concerns about the child’s welfare, you have a strong case.»
«What do I need to do?»
«Document everything. Every interaction. Every denial of access. Every threat.»
«Keep those emails. If they try to prevent you from seeing Oliver, we file. But Bob, be prepared. This could get ugly.»
«It’s already ugly, James.»
«Fair point. Let me send you some information. In the meantime, don’t engage with their provocations. Keep everything civil on your end. Make sure you’re the reasonable one in all communications.»
