My Son Said Firmly “Pay The Rent Or Move Out!” He Did It In Front Of Twenty Two People At Christmas Dinner. My Daughter In Law Added, “Let’s See How You Manage.” I Packed My Things, Went To My New House… And Stopped Covering Any Extra Costs Or Help I’d Quietly Handled For Them.

Anthony installed the plumbing. I painted the walls. Matthew, at six years old, handed us the tools.

We rented it to a young couple for four hundred a month. That money went into another box, and then to another apartment, and another. Anthony had a gift.

He could see an abandoned building and visualize exactly how to turn it into something beautiful. I had another gift. I could make every dollar multiply in the ledgers.

In 2003, we bought our fifth building. The lawyer suggested we create a company to handle everything legally. Anthony thought of the sparrows he always saw on the electrical wires in Chelsea—those small but tireless birds.

“Vega Properties,” he said, like our last name but with wings. Together we overcame the 2008 financial crisis. When others sold in panic, we bought with strategy: buildings in Brooklyn, apartments in Soho, commercial spaces in the Upper East Side.

By 2015, Vega Properties had 47 properties in its portfolio. And then, one rainy Tuesday in November of 2017, Anthony put his hand to his chest while reviewing some blueprints in our office. “Kath,” was the last thing he said before he fell.

The hospital informed me it had been a massive heart attack. “He didn’t suffer,” were the doctor’s words—as if they were a comfort. Return to Present
I opened the nightstand drawer and took out a manila folder.

Inside were documents that no one in this house knew existed: Articles of Incorporation for Vega Properties LLC. Stock shares—Katherine Vega, 85%. Executive Director, James Torres.

Property Contracts: Penthouse, Upper East Side, East 70th Street, 234. Owner: Vega Properties LLC. Vehicle: Cadillac, AE6.

Registered to Vega Properties LLC. Authorized user (temporary): Matthew Vega. Additional card: Primary account, Katherine Vega.

I slowly flipped through the pages. Each document was a reminder of what I had built—of what I had allowed my son to believe was his. Flashback: Three Years Ago
Matthew had finished his architecture degree.

He got a job at a respectable firm. His salary was two thousand eight hundred a month—not bad for New York, but not enough for the lifestyle he had always dreamed of. One day he came to visit me at the Vega Properties office.

I kept a low profile, working from a small office in the back of the building while James handled the public meetings as CEO. “Mom,” Matthew said, sitting down across from my desk, “I want to move out on my own. I found an apartment for rent in the Upper East Side, but it costs two thousand two hundred a month.

With my salary, it’s possible… but it’s tight.”

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