They brought their belongings gradually. First a few boxes, then their furniture, then their car in my garage. Before long, my house didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt like ours.
For a while, I told myself this was what family was for. Jeffrey cooked on weekends. Melanie came with me to the farmer’s market. I heard laughter in the hallways again. I wanted to believe we were simply becoming closer.
“Mom, Can You Help Us Just This Once?”
Richard had left me in a solid position. The house was worth a great deal. The bakeries were profitable. There were substantial savings and investments. On paper, the total value of everything we’d built over a lifetime was around four million dollars.
Legally, everything belonged to me. Eventually, of course, it would pass to Jeffrey. But as long as I was alive, the decisions were mine.
The first request for money came six months after they moved in.
Jeffrey came out to the garden while I was watering the roses. With the same sheepish look he had as a boy asking for lunch money, he told me his company might be restructuring. He said he needed $50,000 for a specialization course that would “secure his career.”
I didn’t think twice. I transferred the money. That’s what mothers do, right? We help.
Three weeks later, Melanie knocked on my bedroom door, eyes full of concern. Her mother, she explained, needed a procedure. The cost would be $30,000, but the insurance wasn’t covering it. She was so apologetic that I felt guilty even thinking of saying no.
I didn’t ask for paperwork. I didn’t ask for details. I simply transferred the money.
