After Selling My House To Help My Three Children Start Their Businesses, I Ended Up Living In A Small Room Above A Garage. Last Christmas, I Showed Up At My Daughter’s Mansion With A Gift And Was Met With Surprise. ‘Sorry, This Is A Private Event,’ She Said.

After their father died, leaving us with nothing but debt and memories, I’d poured everything into raising them alone. The house was my only asset, the culmination of 30 years of hard work. Selling it had provided each of my three children with enough capital to launch their businesses: David’s Restaurant, Emma’s Boutique, and Lily’s Graphic Design Firm.

For a while, I’d lived with each of them in turn, moving from one spare bedroom to another. But as their businesses flourished, their lives grew busier. The invitations to family dinners became less frequent.

Calls went unreturned, and eventually I found myself renting the tiny space above Mrs. Peterson’s garage, surviving on my modest pension and occasional substitute teaching jobs. Now, standing before Emma’s grand home, I steeled myself and pressed the doorbell.

Through the frosted glass, I could see silhouettes moving about in elegant attire. The door swung open and there stood my daughter, radiant in a red cocktail dress, her hair swept up in an elaborate style I’d never seen before. Her smile faltered when she saw me.

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