Then came another sound—the unmistakable voices of grown-ups. Lila’s light, easy laugh.
“You know, Tom, we should rent out her spare room. She’s hardly ever home.”
“We could get $600 a month without her noticing,” Lila went on. “With all her evening shifts, she’ll never catch on.”
Thomas chuckled. “Mom’s always been trusting.”
“And once she starts paying for swimming lessons,” Lila added brightly, “we can finally plan that Hawaii trip. Free babysitting!”
I froze—not from fear, but from a hollow ache that left me numb.
“The best part?” Lila giggled. “She thinks daycare is $800. It’s only $500. We pocket $300 every month.”
Thomas laughed softly. “And when she gets older, we’ll find her a nice nursing home. That extra room will finally bring in some income.”
“She’ll say yes to anything if it’s for Max.”
“Absolutely.”
I sat in the dark, staring at the wall I helped build. The wall they now wanted to cross—for their own profit.
My son. The boy I raised alone. Fed, clothed, loved without condition. How could he?
That night—and the nights after—I barely slept. Lila’s laughter echoed in my head, Thomas’s casual betrayal louder than any insult.
How do you give everything and still feel invisible?
I scrubbed dishes until my hands were raw. Skipped meals so they wouldn’t have to. Was I just a bank to them?
It became clear: they wouldn’t stop unless I drew a line.
Saturday was my 60th birthday. I kept the dinner small.
“Happy birthday, Mom!” Thomas said, kissing my cheek. “You look tired.”
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