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.

Mark graduated from NYU with a business degree, married his college sweetheart, Elaine, and landed a job with a financial firm in Boston. Sophie followed suit, graduating from Yukon before moving to Chicago for a position in marketing. I was proud.

So proud that I didn’t mind that they rarely called, that my birthdays often went unagnowledged, that invitations to visit were few and far between. They’re busy building their lives. I would tell my sister Diane when she questioned their absence.

That’s what we raised them to do. But at 58, after 33 years of motherhood, I was tired. Tired of being an afterthought.

Tired of the obligation in their voices when they did call. Tired of sending checks every month to help with their mortgages, car payments, daycare costs. Money I could have been putting toward my own retirement.

Money that was never acknowledged except with a quick text. Got it. Thanks.

Still, I persisted because that’s what mothers do, right? We give and give until there’s nothing left. This past December, I made a decision.

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