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Ashley collapsed onto my sofa.
“Stephanie, he did what you asked. He made the public video. He completely humiliated himself. Isn’t that enough?”
“Ashley,” I explained patiently, “the video doesn’t erase 45 years of ingratitude. It doesn’t undo the humiliation of the wedding. It doesn’t repair the emotional damage you both caused me for years.”
She looked at me as if I were being unreasonable.
“But he publicly apologized. He admitted his mistakes.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “After he found out about my money. After he knew he was going to lose a multi-million-dollar inheritance. Do you think he would have made that video if I were actually poor?”
The question left her speechless because we both knew the truth.
Ashley tried a different tactic.
“Stephanie, I made mistakes, too. I was young, immature. I let my mom influence my opinions about you. But now I understand. You are an extraordinary woman, strong, independent.”
“Ashley,” I interrupted, “three weeks ago, you told me I didn’t need much money. You sat me at the back table at the wedding I paid for. You allowed Ethan to publicly humiliate me. At what point during those years did you show me any respect?”
“Besides,” I continued, “where is your husband now? Why didn’t he come to apologize himself?”
Ashley looked down.
“He’s ashamed. He says he can’t face you after what he did.”
Her answer confirmed what I suspected. Ethan was still a coward.
“Stephanie,” Ashley pleaded, “give us a chance. We can be a real family. Ethan has learned his lesson. I have, too. Even my mom says she was wrong about you.”
The mention of Carol made me laugh.
“Oh, so now Carol admits she was wrong. How convenient.”
“What can we do? What do you need to forgive us?”
Her question revealed she still didn’t get it. She still thought this was a negotiation, that there was a price for my forgiveness.
“Ashley,” I said, walking her to the door, “some things don’t have a price. Some wounds don’t heal. Some relationships can’t be repaired.”
“But family love—” she started to say.
“Family love,” I interrupted, “is built on mutual respect, not desperate pleas when an inheritance is discovered.”
I opened the door.
“Ethan had 45 years to show genuine family love. He chose contempt. Now he must live with that choice.”
Ashley left in tears. From my window, I saw her get into a taxi, talking frantically on the phone, probably reporting back to Ethan that their latest strategy had failed. The viral video, the public pleas, the promises of change—nothing was working.
That night, as I had dinner alone on my terrace, I received a message from Ethan. It was a picture of him in what looked like a doctor’s office.
“Mom, I’m in therapy. I’m going to work on being a better person. I love you.”
I deleted the message without replying. His therapy came too late. His changes were reactive, not proactive. Everything he was doing now was out of fear of losing money, not out of genuine love for me. The difference was crucial, and Ethan had already shown his true priorities.
My flight to Barcelona was scheduled for five days later. As I looked out at the city lights, I felt completely at peace with my decision. Ethan had chosen to replace me as a mother. Now, I was choosing to replace him as a son.
The last few days before my departure passed in a blur of preparations and constant drama. Ethan’s video had reached over a million views. The comments continued to pour in by the thousands, most of them supporting me and condemning my son’s ingratitude. Some local media outlets had even contacted Mr. Miller, asking for interviews with me.
“You’ve become a symbol for mothers mistreated by ungrateful children,” Mr. Miller informed me during our last meeting. “Women are sharing their own similar stories on social media. Your case has struck a very sensitive nerve in society.”
The irony was not lost on me. After decades of silence, I finally had a voice.
Two days before my flight, Ethan appeared in the lobby of my building. The doorman called to announce his presence.
“Tell him I’m packing,” I replied. “I don’t have time for visitors.”
From my window, I could see him waiting on the street for hours like an abandoned dog. His presence annoyed me, but his desperation no longer moved me.
That same afternoon, I received an unexpected call. It was Carol, but her tone had changed completely.
“Stephanie, I need to speak with you urgently. It’s about my business.”
Her voice was tense, worried.
“Your business?” I asked, intrigued. “What does that have to do with me?”
“The video scandal has affected my company,” Carol admitted with difficulty. “Some important clients have canceled their contracts. They say they don’t want to be associated with a family that mistreated an adoptive mother.”
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