After Selling My House To Help My Three Children Start Their Businesses, I Ended Up Living In A Small Room Above A Garage. Last Christmas, I Showed Up At My Daughter’s Mansion With A Gift And Was Met With Surprise. ‘Sorry, This Is A Private Event,’ She Said.

Richard nodded, understanding.

“Of course, but please take my card. Call me tomorrow.” He pressed a business card into my hand. “We have a lot to discuss.”

Emma stepped forward, her professional smile back in place, though her eyes were panicked.

“Ladies and gentlemen, why don’t we all move to the dining room? Dinner is about to be served.” She gestured toward an archway, and the crowd, still buzzing with whispers, began to move in that direction. When the last guest had left the room, I turned to face my three children.

Their expressions ranged from David’s defiance to Lily’s tears to Emma’s calculated composure. “Mom,” Emma began. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Then what is it?” I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.

“Because it looks like you’ve been hiding opportunities from me. It looks like you’ve been lying to people about me. It looks like my own children have been sabotaging my life.”

David squared his shoulders.

“We were protecting you.”

“Protecting me from what? A job? Financial security?

Recognition for my life’s work?”

“From stress,” he insisted. “From responsibility. You’re not young anymore, Mom.

After everything you’ve been through, you deserve to rest.”

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