I Was Taken To The Hospital And Couldn’t Respond. The Doctors Called My Son, But He Said, “I’m Busy, I’m Taking My Wife To Dinner—She Needs Me Tonight.” Even After Being Told My Condition Was Serious. One Week Later, I Walked Out Of The Hospital And Made A Call To The Accounts Office. Two Hours Later, He Showed Up At My HOUSE IN A RUSH.

I thought about the night Michael graduated college, how I had worked three jobs to pay his tuition while he partied with fraternity brothers who didn’t know their single mother was cleaning office buildings at 2:00 a.m. to afford their beer money. I thought about his wedding day when Victoria had made it clear that my presence was an embarrassment.

How I had been seated in the back, treated like a distant relative rather than the mother of the groom. How Victoria had forgotten to include me in family photos, claiming I wouldn’t photograph well in my off-the-rack dress. I thought about all the birthdays, holidays, and special occasions where I had been an afterthought.

the times I had been uninvited to parties because Victoria thought I was too old or wouldn’t fit in with their crowd. Most of all, I thought about the money. For 31 years, I had been Michael’s safety net.

When he needed a down payment for his first apartment, I had taken out a second mortgage. When he wanted to start his consulting business, I had liquidated my retirement account. When he and Victoria bought their mansion, I had co-signed the loan and provided the down payment from my life insurance policy.

Over the years, I had given him nearly $850,000. Not loans. Gifts.

Because that’s what mothers do for their children, right? They sacrifice everything and expect nothing in return. Except respect.

Except love. Except the basic human decency of showing up when your mother is dying in a hospital bed. On my final night in the hospital, as I stared out the window at the city lights, I made a decision that would change everything.

Michael thought I was weak. He thought I was disposable. He thought my only value was the money I could provide and the problems I could solve.

He was about to learn how wrong he was. The next morning, I was discharged with a clean bill of health and a heart full of purpose. I took a taxi home to my modest two-bedroom house, the house I should have paid off years ago if I hadn’t spent a fortune supporting my ungrateful son.

The first thing I did was shower and put on my best black suit, the one I had worn to my husband’s funeral 15 years ago. It still fit perfectly, and the color seemed appropriate for what I was about to do. The second thing I did was call my bank.

“First National, this is Margaret speaking.”

“Margaret, this is Anna Steven. I need to schedule an emergency meeting with Mr. Patterson.”

James Patterson had been my banker for over 20 years.

He had watched me scrape together every penny, had approved every loan I had taken to support Michael’s dreams. He knew exactly what my financial sacrifices had cost me. “Of course, Mrs.

Steven, is everything all right?”

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