My Daughter Wrote: “Don’t You Dare Come To Us For Christmas! We Don’t Want To See You!’ My Son…

My Daughter Wrote: “Don’t You Dare Come To Us For Christmas! We Don’t Want To See You!’ My Son…

My daughter wrote, “Don’t you dare come to us for Christmas. We don’t want to see you.” My son said nothing. I calmly replied, “Okay.” And then cancelled all the bank payments. In the morning, they both stood at my doorstep. I’m glad you’re here with me.

I used to believe that being a good mother meant sacrificing everything for your children. For 35 years, I lived by that principle. My name is Margaret Chen, and at 62 years old, I had spent the better part of my life ensuring my two children, Jessica and Brian, had everything they needed.

My husband Tom died seven years ago, leaving me a comfortable pension, our paidoff house in suburban Cleveland, and a modest investment portfolio. I wasn’t wealthy, but I was secure. And I was generous, perhaps too generous, I would later realize. Every month, like clockwork, I sent Jessica $1,500. She was 34, married to Derek, a man who seemed to change jobs more often than his socks.

They had two children, Emma and Lucas, my precious grandchildren, whom I adored. Jessica always had reasons why they needed the money. Unexpected medical bills, car repairs, Emma’s dance classes, Lucas’s tutoring. Brian, my 31-year-old son, received $1,000 monthly. He was single, working in tech support, but apparently his salary never quite covered his expenses.

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