My Son Took $3,000 For A Fancy Family Dinner, Then Banned Me Because I Look “Too Poor.” I Just Found Out He Forged My Signature To Mortgage My House. What Do I Do Now?
When I arrived at their house with the cake in my hands, Kate opened the door and looked at me with that fake smile I knew so well.
“Oh, Eleanor, you shouldn’t have bothered.”
She took the cake from my hands without inviting me in.
“We already ordered a cake from the French bakery downtown. You know, something a bit more sophisticated for the celebration.”
She stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance.
“The party is just for close friends, nothing family oriented. We’ll celebrate some other time with you.”
I stood there on the porch with empty hands.
“But Michael told me to come at 7:00.”
“Oh, must have been a misunderstanding.”
Kate was already closing the door.
“We’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
They never called.
And when I asked Michael days later, he just said it had been a last-minute gathering with his business partners, that it hadn’t been anything important.
I believed him, or I wanted to believe him, because it was easier to believe it had been a misunderstanding than to accept that my own son had lied to me.
Then it was Mother’s Day last year.
Michael had promised me we would spend the day together, that he would take me out to lunch somewhere nice.
I got ready in my best dress, the light blue dress I had bought on sale years ago but that still looked presentable.
I did my hair carefully; I even put on a little lipstick.
I sat in the living room waiting for him starting at 11:00 in the morning.
I waited until 2:00 in the afternoon, then until 4:00, then until 6:00.
The phone rang at 7:00 in the evening.
It was Michael; his voice sounded cheerful, too cheerful.
“Mom, sorry. Something came up last minute with Kate’s parents. We had to go to brunch with them. You know how her family is, very strict with traditions.”
“But Michael, today is Mother’s Day. You promised me.”
“I know, Mom, I know. I’ll make it up to you next week. I promise.”
He never made it up to me.
And I never complained because good mothers don’t complain; good mothers understand; good mothers forgive.
Or that was what I told myself every time my chest ached from his indifference.
After that was Christmas, the Christmas where I had saved for months to buy them nice gifts: a watch for Michael, a leather purse for Kate.
They weren’t expensive designer things, but it was the best I could afford on my pension.
I wrapped them carefully; I put on gold bows.
I took them to their house on the morning of December 24th.
Kate opened the door in a robe; her hair was wet as if she had just gotten out of the shower.
“Eleanor, what a surprise.”
She didn’t sound surprised; she sounded annoyed.
“I didn’t know you were coming today.”
“Michael told me we were having dinner together on Christmas Eve like always.”
She stayed quiet for a moment, then she sighed.
“Eleanor, this year we decided to spend Christmas alone. You know, start our own traditions as a couple. I hope you understand.”
“Alone? But what about me?”
“You can celebrate with your friends, with Susan or someone from the neighborhood. Don’t stay alone.”
She took the gifts from my hands.
“Thanks for the thoughtful gesture. We’ll open them later.”
The door closed before I could say anything else.
I stood on the porch in the cold afternoon of Christmas Eve, alone, empty-handed, heartbroken.
I walked back to my house and spent Christmas Eve watching television, eating the leftovers of the dinner I had prepared thinking they would share it with me.
I never knew if they opened my gifts; they never thanked me.
They never called to wish me a Merry Christmas.
And then there were the times I called and they didn’t answer.
The times I texted them and they replied with one-word answers days later.
The times I drove past their house and saw the car in the driveway, but when I knocked on the door no one opened.
The times I heard their voices inside, but they pretended not to be there.
The $11,000 Debt and the Discovery of the Lie
I got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen.
I turned on the light and poured myself a glass of water; my hands were still shaking.
I opened the refrigerator and saw the food Kate had mentioned, a container with leftovers of something that didn’t even look appetizing.
That was what they had left me: leftovers.
Because that was what I was to them: a leftover from their perfect life.
I took my phone out of my apron pocket.
I opened the photo app and started scrolling.
There were photos of Michael and Kate at fancy restaurants, on trips to the beach, at parties with friends, all posted on their social media, all with perfect smiles and happy captions.
And I appeared in none of them.
I kept scrolling.
There was a photo from three weeks ago; it was Kate’s birthday.
They were at a restaurant surrounded by people, everyone toasting, everyone laughing.
I didn’t know it had been her birthday; no one had told me.
No one had invited me, and I used to always buy her a gift; I used to always bake her a cake.
This year I didn’t even know she had a birthday.
More photos: a trip to the mountains two months ago.
Michael had told me he would be busy with work, that he couldn’t visit me that weekend.
But there he was, smiling next to a bonfire with Kate and a group of friends, lying, hiding from me.
And then I saw the most recent photo.
It was from a week ago: a dinner at Kate’s parents’ house.
“Family reunited,”
The caption said.
But I wasn’t there because I wasn’t family, not to them.
I closed the phone and left it on the table.
The pain in my chest was so intense I could barely breathe.
All those times I had justified their absence, all those times I had told myself they were busy, that they had their own lives, that it was normal for children to drift away.
It had all been a lie.
They weren’t busy; they simply didn’t want to be with me.
I sat back down at the kitchen table, the same table where I had prepared thousands of meals for Michael.
The same table where I had helped him with his homework while struggling with the math problems myself.
The same table where we had eaten breakfast together every morning for 18 years.
Now that table only reminded me of everything I had lost.
I thought about all the times Kate had made comments about my clothes.
“Eleanor, you should update your wardrobe. Those dresses are very out of style.”
Or about my house.
“This part of the neighborhood isn’t what it used to be. You should think about moving to something smaller.”
Or about the way I spoke.
“Eleanor, when we’re in public try not to talk so much about your cleaning work. People aren’t interested in those kinds of things.”
I always stayed quiet; I always nodded.
I always tried to change to please her because I thought if I did everything right, if I tried hard enough, she would accept me.
They would accept me.
But now I realized it had never been enough; it never would be.
Because the problem wasn’t me; the problem was that they were ashamed of me.
I looked at the wall clock; it was 10:00 at night.
They must be at the steakhouse right now, sitting at some elegant table eating expensive food, laughing with important people while I was here alone, excluded, forgotten.
With the money I myself had given them three months ago.
That money, $3,000, I had saved for years, every dollar earned with my sweat.
With my hands cracked from scrubbing floors, with my knees aching from kneeling to clean other people’s bathrooms.
Michael had told me he needed it for an important investment, that it was urgent, that he would pay me back soon.
I gave him everything without asking questions because you don’t say no to your children.
Because mothers give without expecting anything in return.
But now I knew the truth: that money hadn’t been for any investment.
That money had been for this dinner, for this luxurious celebration from which I was excluded.
My own money was paying for my humiliation.
I got up and walked to my bedroom.
I opened the drawer of my nightstand and took out the notebook where I kept my accounts.
I turned the pages with trembling hands.
