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,” I said, my voice barely audible. “It’s me. It’s Mom.”

He didn’t flinch.

“I think you have the wrong address. “There’s no Mark here.”

And then he closed the door. I stood there frozen as the world tilted on its axis.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. Not after everything.

I was halfway down the walkway when my phone rang. Mark’s name flashed on the screen. I answered, hope fluttering in my chest.

“Mom.”

His voice was different now. Casual. Almost amused.

“Sorry about that. Elaine’s parents are super traditional and they don’t know about, you know, the financial arrangement we have. “We’re trying to keep things peaceful.”

“Financial arrangement?” I repeated, the words foreign on my tongue.

“Yeah, you know, the monthly support. “Look, why don’t you head back to your hotel? I’ll call you tomorrow when things calm down.”

“I don’t have a hotel, Mark.

I came here to spend Christmas with my family.”

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