Showed Up On Christmas, But My Son Said, “Sorry, I Think You’re At The Wrong House.” Stunned, I Left. Minutes Later, He Called: “Relax, Mom. We Just Want Some Peace.” I Said, “I Understand.” But He Forgot To Hang Up: “She Thinks That Help She Sends Every Month Means She Gets A Say.” I Paused The Monthly Help.

Just straight to the money. “Hello, Sophie,” I said calmly. “I’ve decided to discontinue the monthly transfers.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a sputtering noise.

“You’ve what? You can’t do that. I’m counting on that money for the baby’s nursery.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied, taking a sip of my cappuccino.

“I suggest you and Daniel adjust your budget accordingly.”

“This is about Mark, isn’t it? He told me what happened. It was a misunderstanding, Mom.

You’re being ridiculous.”

“It’s not about Mark,” I said, though we both knew that was only partially true. “It’s about me finally recognizing my worth.”

She laughed, a harsh sound that held no humor. “Your worth, Mom.

You’re almost 60. This isn’t the time to find yourself or whatever midlife crisis you’re having.”

The comment should have hurt, but instead it only reinforced my decision. “I’m 58, Sophie, not dead, and I’ve put my life on hold long enough.”

“So that’s it?

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