Michael was thrilled. He hugged me tight and promised it would be wonderful.
“We’re going to take such good care of you, Mom.”
What he didn’t mention right away was that he needed help with the down payment on a bigger house. The one they were renting was too small, he explained. But if we pooled our resources, we could get something really nice, something with room for everyone.
I had the money. Harold had been careful with our savings, and the life insurance policy had been generous. Michael said I could think of it as an investment in our family’s future.
I wrote the check without hesitation.
Looking back now, I can see how it all unfolded. But at the time, I was just a widow who wanted to feel needed again.
The first few months in the new house were exactly what Michael had promised. I’d wake up to the sound of my grandchildren giggling in the next room. Amanda would ask my advice about recipes. Michael would sit with me in the evenings and tell me about his day at work.
I felt useful again.
I took care of the kids while Michael and Amanda worked. I’d pack their lunches, help with homework, read bedtime stories. When Amanda mentioned the old washing machine was broken, I bought a new one. When Michael said they were struggling with the electric service one winter, I quietly took over the household accounts.
It felt good to help, to be the kind of mother and grandmother who could ease their burdens.
They called me a blessing.
That word came up a lot.
“You’re such a blessing, Mom.”
“We’re so blessed to have you here.”
I wore that word like a warm coat.
But somewhere along the way, things shifted. It happened so gradually that I didn’t notice at first. The requests for help became expectations. The gratitude became assumptions.
When I suggested maybe I’d like to visit my friend Dorothy one weekend, Amanda looked surprised.
“But who will watch the kids?”
When I mentioned I was tired one evening and might skip cooking dinner, Michael seemed annoyed.
“We were counting on you, Mom.”
The phrase we were counting on you came up more and more.
I started to feel less like family and more like staff.
But I told myself I was being sensitive. They were busy, stressed, working hard. Of course they relied on me. That’s what family does. We help each other.
Then came the moment that should have woken me up sooner.
It was about six months ago. I wasn’t feeling well—just a spring cold—and I’d gone to lie down early. I was in my room with the door cracked open when I heard Amanda on the phone in the hallway.
“I know, I know,” she was saying to someone, her voice carrying that tone people use when they’re venting. “She means well, but she’s so set in her ways. Everything has to be done her way, and honestly, sometimes it’s just easier to work around her.”
There was a pause while the person on the other end spoke.
“Oh, we can’t ask her to leave,” Amanda continued. “Michael would never forgive himself. Plus, she helps with so much. The kids. The expenses. We’d be lost without her money. Honestly—her money, not her. Her money.”
I lay very still in my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling something cold settle in my chest.
She kept talking.
