When I Asked What Time The Engagement Dinner Was, My Daughter Replied, “Oh… We Already Had It Yesterday. Just Close Family.” A Week Later, She Called Me In A Rush: “The Payment Didn’t Process. Did You Forget To Cover It?” I Simply Said,

Jerry’s face was flushing red. “If Rebecca leaves, I leave too.”

The ultimatum hung in the air between us.

For 34 years, those words would have terrified me. The threat of my children withdrawing their presence, their love, their approval had been the ultimate weapon in their arsenal. I sipped my coffee and found it perfect.

“Your choice,” I said. “But if you leave, you don’t get to come back whenever it’s convenient.”

“You don’t mean that.”

But I did mean it. And something in my expression must have conveyed that, because Jerry’s confident demeanor faltered.

“Mom, come on. Let’s talk about this rationally. You’re upset about the money thing.

I get it. But throwing away your family over some credit card charges—”

“I’m not throwing away my family, Jerry. I’m simply declining to continue funding adults who treat me like an ATM with a kitchen.”

Rebecca gathered her yoga mat and crystals with impressive speed.

“I’ll wait in the car,” she murmured to Jerry, practically fleeing the kitchen. My son and I stood facing each other across the kitchen island, the same island where I’d served him countless meals, helped with homework, listened to his dreams and disappointments, where I’d comforted him through his divorce and celebrated his small victories. “This isn’t you, Mom,” he said, his voice softer now, trying a different approach.

“You’re not cruel. You don’t cut people off. You’re the one who keeps the family together.”

“I was,” I agreed.

“But keeping a family together requires more than one person’s effort.”

My phone—which I’d turned back on—buzzed with another call from Zoey. I looked at the screen and deliberately let it go to voicemail. “Zoe’s probably crying right now,” Jerry said.

“Her wedding is ruined.”

“Her wedding is not ruined. She simply needs to find a way to pay for it herself.”

“With what money? She’s a teacher, Mom.

She makes nothing.”

“I was a teacher too, Jerry, for 32 years. I managed to pay for my own wedding.”

“That was different. Things cost less then.”

“Things cost less because people planned according to their means.”

Jerry was quiet for a long moment, studying my face as if seeing me clearly for the first time in years.

“What do you want from us?” he asked finally. It was a good question. What did I want from them?

An apology? A recognition of how they’d taken advantage of my love? A promise to change?

“I want you to be adults,” I said. “I want you to take responsibility for your own lives and decisions. I want you to stop treating me like a resource to be exploited.”

“And if we don’t?”

Continue reading…