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.

I looked at my son. He had inherited Anthony’s eyes—that determination. But there was also some youthful naïveté that didn’t yet know the real price of things.

I opened the Vega Properties system on my computer. “We have an empty penthouse on East 70th Street,” I told him. “Two thousand square feet.

Renovated two years ago. Market value, thirty-five hundred a month.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “Mom, that’s way out of my budget.”

“I’ll rent it to you for fourteen hundred,” I said.

“It’s an internal discount—employees, son rate.”

“Seriously?” His face lit up. “But won’t you need it?”

“I’m fine in my apartment in Chelsea,” I lied. In reality, that Chelsea apartment was also mine, but he didn’t know it.

“Besides,” I added, “I prefer to live simply. You’re young. You deserve a nice place.”

He signed the contract that same week.

On paper, it said: Lessee, Matthew Vega. Lessor, Vega Properties LLC. He never asked who was behind Vega Properties.

Two months later, Audrey appeared in his life—a fashion influencer with fifty thousand followers on Instagram. I saw her posting photos of the penthouse. “My architect boyfriend has impeccable taste for spaces.”

When they got married, I gave him something else: an additional card linked to my account.

“Just for emergencies,” I told him. “In case you ever need something important.”

Something important became dinners at Michelin restaurants. Emergencies were two-thousand-dollar handbags.

I received the statements every month and paid them in silence. Six hundred here. Twelve hundred there.

Thirty-four hundred on a trip to Miami. I never said anything. And when Matthew asked if he could use one of the company cars to better represent himself in meetings with clients, James signed the authorization—which I approved from my small office.

“It’s temporary,” I told James. “Just until he saves up for his own car.”

Three years later, that temporary was still his gray Cadillac. Present Decision
I took out my cell phone.

It was 11:47 p.m. on Christmas night. Outside, fireworks from some private party lit up the New York City sky.

I dialed a number I had on speed dial. “James, it’s Katherine.”

“Katherine, Merry Christmas. Is everything okay?” His voice sounded worried.

James Torres had been Anthony’s right-hand man. After my husband’s death, he had become my confidant—and the only one who knew the full truth about my role in Vega Properties. “I need you to prepare all the documents related to Matthew first thing tomorrow morning,” I said, looking at the photos on the wall—the lease agreement, the vehicle authorization, the statements for the additional card.

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