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.

“Rest?” I echoed in disbelief. “In a room above a garage, counting pennies to make rent? That’s your idea of rest.”

Lily wiped away tears.

“We were going to tell you about the award. We just… We thought—”

“You thought what?” My voice was dangerously quiet now. Emma stepped forward, ever the pragmatist.

“We thought the money would be better used investing in businesses that could eventually support all of us, including you.”

And there it was, the truth laid bare. They had taken what was meant for me, justifying it as being for my own good, when really it had been for theirs. “The same way you invested the money from selling my house?” I asked.

“The house that your father and I worked our entire lives to pay for. The home where I raised you after he died.”

A flash of guilt crossed their faces, confirming what I had begun to suspect. The money I had given them hadn’t all gone to their businesses.

I remembered Emma’s luxury car, David’s vacation to the Maldives, Lily’s designer wardrobe—all appearing shortly after I’d given them their investments. “Where did the money go?” I demanded. “All of it.

I want to know right now.” David’s face hardened. “This isn’t the time or place for this conversation.”

“It’s exactly the time,” I countered. “Because I’m done waiting for you three to remember I exist.

I’m done being pushed aside and forgotten. I’m done sacrificing everything while getting nothing, not even basic respect, in return.”

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