“How much?” I asked, bracing myself.

“$19,000.”

He said it the way someone orders coffee — effortless, entitled.

“That’s my whole savings,” I whispered.

He didn’t even blink.

“If you loved me,” he replied, “you wouldn’t hesitate.”

Something inside me cracked quietly, like a plate slipping off a table and shattering on the floor.

But I gave it to him anyway. Because mothers don’t stop loving, even when it hurts. I went to the bank, drained everything I had, and placed the check in his hand.

He didn’t hug me. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even smile.

He just said, “Ashley will appreciate this.”

The months that followed were humiliating.

Ashley dictated everything — the color palette, the seating chart, even where I was allowed to stand in family photos.