My eight-year-old niece glanced at me, sighed dramatically, and declared, “You shouldn’t be sitting here, you always make things difficult.” The whole table burst into laughter – my son almost doubled over, unable to contain his laughter. I simply got up, gathered my things, and quietly left. That night, my phone vibrated with a text message from my son: “Are you still sending the money tomorrow?” I typed back, unintentionally and unheard: “You figure it out yourself.” When morning came… 100 missed calls.
My son Mark’s new house is a magnificent 500-square-meter Colonial estate perched on a hill, with a perfectly manicured garden. It’s beautiful, luxurious, and reeks of money. My money.
I, Margaret, 65, sat at the head of the long dining table, struggling to cut through the tough steak my daughter-in-law, Linda, called “premium Wagyu beef.” Dinner was to celebrate Mark’s recent promotion to Vice President of a venture capital firm – a position I’d spent half my life using my connections to secure for him.
“Mom, you’re using the wrong fork,” Linda subtly pointed, her smile as thin as a razor blade. “That small fork is for dessert.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I awkwardly set the fork down. My hand trembled slightly from my arthritis. “I just wanted some salad.”
Mark sat opposite me, engrossed in his phone, not bothering to look up. “Mom, just focus a little. Don’t upset Linda. She’s been cooking all afternoon.”
I remained silent. I knew Linda hadn’t cooked. I’d seen the empty Le Bec-Fin restaurant lunchbox in the trash can when I came in through the back door. But I said nothing. I’d learned to keep quiet to maintain peace for the past ten years.
Beside me sat Sophie, my eight-year-old granddaughter, a beautiful angel with golden blonde hair. She was playing with her tablet.
“Sophie, do you want Grandma to get some more mashed potatoes?” I asked gently, trying to connect with her.
Sophie looked up at me. Her bright blue eyes held no innocence, but a precocious annoyance—a perfect reflection of her parents’ attitude.
She sighed dramatically, rolled her eyes, and declared emphatically:
“You shouldn’t be sitting here. You always make things difficult. Mom said so.”
The space fell silent for a second.
Then laughter erupted.
Not a forced, embarrassed laugh. But a hearty, agreeable laugh. Linda covered her mouth and giggled. And Mark, my son, the one whose gambling debts I paid off last year by selling our cherished house, almost doubled over with laughter.
“Children don’t lie, Mom,” Mark said, wiping away tears as he laughed. “You ask too many questions, you’re really bothering me. Sophie is very perceptive.”
“That’s my daughter,” Linda stroked her hair, her eyes filled with pride as if her daughter had just solved a difficult math problem. “You’re absolutely right, my dear.”
I sat there, my hand still holding the spoon of mashed potatoes suspended in mid-air.
I looked at Mark. I looked at this house. I looked at the Rolex watch on his wrist. All of it was the sweat and tears of me and my late husband. I thought sacrifice would earn gratitude, or at least respect.
But no. In their eyes, I was just a walking ATM, a “difficulty” to endure to withdraw money. And now, they’re teaching the next generation to look down on me.
A chill spread from my chest throughout my body, extinguishing any weakness or vulnerability.
I set the spoon down on the table. Clack.
“Mom?” Mark asked, a smile still lingering on his lips. “Are you angry? Just kidding, old people are so sensitive.”
I said nothing. I stood up, taking the worn wool coat draped over the chair.
“Hey, you haven’t had dessert yet?” Linda asked casually.
“I’m going home,” I said, my voice strangely calm. “So you don’t make things any more difficult.”
I walked out the door. Behind me, the lively chatter resumed. They didn’t try to stop me. They thought I was just a grumpy old woman, and that tomorrow I’d come back, begging for their affection as always.
They were wrong.
Back in my tiny apartment (the only place I had left), I sat in the darkness, looking out at the glittering lights of Philadelphia.
I opened my banking app on my phone.
My savings account balance: $2.5 million. This was the last bit of money from selling my husband’s company before he died. Mark thought I’d spent it all on buying him a house. He didn’t know I’d kept this retirement fund.
But more importantly, I opened another file. A PDF sent from the private investigator I’d hired two months ago, when I started suspecting Mark’s recurring “losing investments.”
The report stated: Mark Sullivan is under covert investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) for embezzlement and insider trading. He needs $500,000 by tomorrow morning to cover the deficit before the inspectors arrive, or he faces a 20-year prison sentence.
That’s the reason for tonight’s dinner. That’s why he invited me. He needs $500,000. He intended to bring it up after dessert.
My phone rang.
Mark: “Mom, are you home yet? I forgot to tell you, can you transfer $500,000 tomorrow? I urgently need working capital for my new project. Are you still going to send the money tomorrow morning? It’s a matter of life and death.”
He didn’t even call. Just texted. He was sure I would send it. Because I always send it. Because I’m the mother who “makes things difficult” but always cleans up his mess.
I looked at the text message. I remember her mocking smile when her daughter insulted me. “Mom asks too many questions… Sophie is absolutely right.”
I typed
Again, slowly, word by word:
“Take care of yourself.”
I pressed send.
Then, I turned off my phone.
I unplugged the landline.
I made a cup of chamomile tea, drank it all, and went to bed. That was the best night’s sleep I’d had in ten years.
The next morning, I woke up at 8 o’clock. I leisurely made breakfast and watered the plants on the balcony.
9 a.m. The opening hours of the banks and stock market.
I turned on my phone.
It vibrated violently like a wounded animal dying. Notifications kept popping up, piling up until the screen froze.
102 missed calls from Mark.
45 missed calls from Linda.
15 voicemails.
I didn’t listen to the voicemails. I opened the text messages.
8:05 AM – Mark: “Mom, are you kidding? Transfer the money right now! The bank is about to open!”
8:15 AM – Mark: “Mom? Where are you? I’m sorry about last night! It was my fault! Please answer the phone!”
8:30 AM – Mark: “YOU WANT TO KILL ME? THEY’RE HERE! THE INSPECTORS ARE HERE!”
8:45 AM – Linda: “You damn old woman! What are you doing? Mark is going crazy! Transfer the money now!”
9:00 AM – Mark: “Mom… please… They’ve handcuffed me…”
I put down the phone and took a sip of coffee. The coffee today was really strong.
The doorbell rang incessantly.
I looked through the peephole. It was Linda. Her hair was disheveled, she wasn’t wearing makeup, and she was banging on the door frantically.
“Open the door! Margaret! I know you’re in there! You ruined my husband!”
I opened the door, but left the safety chain on.
“What’s wrong, Linda?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Why do you look so haggard? That dress doesn’t suit you.”
“Are you still pretending?” Linda yelled, tears smudging her mascara and running down her cheeks. “Mark’s been arrested by the FBI! For embezzlement! He didn’t have the money to pay back the fund this morning! It’s your fault! It’s all your fault for not transferring the money!”
“My fault?” I raised an eyebrow. “I thought I was the one ‘making things difficult’? I thought Mark told me not to bother him anymore?”
“That was just a joke! Why are you so vengeful? You’re his mother! You have money! Why didn’t you save him?”
“Yes, I have money,” I said coldly. “But that money is mine. And yesterday, Sophie taught you a valuable lesson. That your presence and your interference only cause trouble. So you’ve decided not to interfere in Mark’s life anymore. Let him grow up on his own. Let him… suffer a little to become a better person, right?”
Linda’s jaw dropped. She realized I was using their own words against her.
“You… you’re a devil…” Linda groaned. “We’ll lose our house! Where will Sophie go?”
“Sophie has a smart mother and a capable father,” I smiled. “Surely you won’t let her suffer. And that house… oh, it’s in Mark’s name, so it’ll definitely be sealed for execution. What a shame, I loved that garden so much.”
I was about to close the door, but Linda yelled,
“The lawyer says Mark can get bail if he posts $2 million! You have to save him! Otherwise, he’ll die in prison!”
$2 million. Almost all the money I had.
“Bail?” I mused. “Well, you’d like to help too…”
Linda’s eyes lit up with hope.
“…but this morning you accidentally used that money for something else.”
“What did you do?”
“You set up an Irrevocable Educational Trust for Sophie,” I said. “The money will be held there until Sophie turns 25. No one can withdraw it, not even her parents, not even the court. She’ll have money for college, as long as she doesn’t become as bad as her parents.”
“You’d rather give money to an 8-year-old than save your son from prison?” Linda shouted in despair.
“Mark is a man,” I said one last time before slamming the door shut. “Men have to face the consequences of their actions. That’s what makes a man.”
Two months later.
I sat in the federal prison visiting room. Mark sat opposite me through the bulletproof glass. He was gaunt, his head shaved, wearing an orange prison uniform. Gone was the arrogance, gone was the Rolex watch. Only a trembling failure remained.
“Why?” Mark asked, his voice hoarse. “You knew I needed the money to cover it up. You knew all along, didn’t you?”
“I knew,” I nodded. “I knew two months ago. I was going to give you the money. I brought the checkbook to dinner that night.”
Mark’s eyes widened. “Just because… just because of something Sophie said? Just because I laughed?”
“Not because of something, Mark,” I looked straight into my son’s eyes. “It was because of your reaction to that statement. You laughed at my pain. You taught your daughter to despise the person who provided for this whole family. In that moment, I realized: I wasn’t raising a son. I was raising an ungrateful parasite.”
“And parasites need to have their host removed before they can learn to survive on their own.”
Mark bowed his head, tears falling onto the cold metal tabletop.
“I’m sorry…”
“I accept your apology,” I stood up. “But I won’t pay bail. You’ll sit here for five years. Use that time to think about how difficult it is to ‘be a human being’.”
“What am I going to do without Mom’s money?”
I walked out of prison. The sun was shining brightly.
My phone vibrated. A video message from Linda – who now works as a cashier at a supermarket and lives in a cramped rented apartment.
In the video, Sophie was sitting and studying. She looked into the camera and timidly said, “Grandma… I’m sorry for making things difficult for you. Can you come visit me? I miss you.”
I smiled. Perhaps that trust was a good investment. Sophie still had a chance to make amends.
I texted back, “I’ll pick you up for ice cream this weekend. Just the two of us.”
I got into my new car and drove towards the sunset. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the one “making things difficult.” I was in control. And that felt amazing.
