Chapter 3
I put the phone down on the table, the screen still flashing, but the pangs of heartache were gone. I stepped out onto the balcony; the July night air was crisp and quiet—a quiet I had longed for for years.
The next morning, I received a call from the family lawyer. He said my son was at their office, accompanied by his newlywed wife. They wanted to know why the "support account" had been frozen and why the service contracts in my name had been canceled overnight.
I listened to them, the daughter-in-law screaming on the phone, blaming me for being "a selfish mother who ruined the most important day of her life." My son hesitated, his voice no longer as confident as when he saw me being pushed into the kitchen corner. He asked me, "Mom, why did you do that? I'm your son, after all?"
I took a deep breath, my voice strangely calm.
"Yes, I am your son," I said slowly. "But it was your day, and you chose to be disrespected by me on that very day. I'm just giving you back exactly what you chose: a 'simple' wedding. When you choose extravagance over respect, you have to pay for it yourself."
I hung up, blocked both their numbers, and returned to the plan I had long put on hold.
That $25,000 wasn't in a drawer; it had been transferred to a trust fund for myself. A week later, I packed my bags and flew to the seaside town I'd promised myself I'd visit after my "son settled down."
My son's wedding became a stain on high society. Unpaid bills, staff demanding payment in the lobby, and rumors of the groom's ingratitude had plunged their marriage into a severe financial crisis.
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I no longer follow the news about them. Sometimes, on windy afternoons on the beach, I suddenly remember that day. I have no regrets. I realize that sometimes the best way to love a child isn't to pamper them, but to teach them that a mother's self-respect isn't a commodity that children can bargain for.
I sat down in the chair by the window and took a sip of hot tea. My life, finally, had truly begun.
