My daughter went crazy when I refused to give her the money from selling my farm. My older son took her side and broke my rib. Twenty minutes later, both of them regretted ever being born.

“But I could see in her eyes that it was exactly what she had meant.

It’s just that well it would be more practical if the money were used for something that benefits the whole family.

The whole family? I murmured feeling the indignation growing in my chest.

And when did the whole family help me when I was struggling alone to support myself after your father died? When did the whole family worry about whether I had enough money to buy food or medicine? Patricia turned red as a tomato.

Mom, we didn’t know you were going through difficulties if you had asked for help.

You didn’t know.

I interrupted, getting up from my rocking chair.

You didn’t know I was working cleaning other people’s houses at 60 years old.

You didn’t know I was selling turkey and mashed potato plates on the weekends to be able to pay for electricity.

You didn’t know I was getting up at 4 in the morning to go babysit because I needed every dime I could earn.

My daughter lowered her gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

Mom, I understand you went through difficult times, but now things are different.

Now you have money, and we really need help.

And why do you need help? I asked, crossing my arms.

The last time we spoke, you told me the business was going very well, that you had secured several new clients.

Patricia squirmed on the sofa, clearly uneasy about having to admit the truth.

Well, it’s just that Aaron made some investments that didn’t turn out as we expected.

And then we had some unexpected expenses.

What kind of unexpected expenses, Patricia? We bought a new car.

We remodeled the house.

and Aaron invested in some stocks that well, we lost quite a bit of money.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

My daughter and her husband had squandered their money on luxuries and bad investments, and now they wanted me to bail them out with the money I had earned from selling the property I had struggled with for years.

So, you spent your money irresponsibly and now you want me to pay the consequences of your bad decisions, I said, feeling the anger starting to boil in my veins.

It’s not like that, Mom.

We just need a small loan to stabilize again.

It’s an investment in your family’s future.

My family, I repeated bitterly.

Where was my family when I needed help? Where was my family when my knees hurt so much from cleaning floors that I could barely walk at night? Where was my family when I had to choose between buying medicine or buying food? Patricia abruptly stood up.

And I could see her patience was running out.

It’s okay, Mom.

We understand you are resentful, but you can’t punish us forever for past mistakes.

I’m not punishing you, Patricia.

I am simply protecting something that is mine by right.

But that money comes from dad’s property.

That property was also our inheritance.

Her words hit me like lightning.

Your inheritance? I shouted, feeling all my composure vanish.

Your inheritance? That property was abandoned for years while I was dying trying to maintain it.

You never lifted a finger to help with the expenses, with the maintenance, with anything.

And now that I converted it into money with my effort and my decision, it turns out it’s your inheritance.

Inheritance is inheritance, Mom.

It doesn’t matter if you sold it or not.

Just then, I heard the engine of another car approaching.

Through the window, I saw my son Michael’s black pickup truck parking next to Patricia’s car.

My heart sank because I knew this visit was not a coincidence.

Clearly, Patricia had planned all this in advance.

Michael entered the house without even knocking on the door, as if it were his own house.

He is a tall, heavy set man, 35 years old, with a messy beard and always dressed in old T-shirts and ripped jeans.

He had gained a lot of weight in recent years and had that tired look of someone who drinks too much.

“Hi, Mom,” he said with a forced smile.

“How are you?” “Patricia told me the good news about the sale of the property.” “Of course she told you,” I muttered, sitting back down in my rocking chair because my legs were trembling with pure indignation.

Michael sat down heavily on the sofa next to his sister, and I could immediately smell the aroma of beer on his breath.

It was barely at 3 hours 0 minutes in the afternoon, and he had already been drinking.

“Mom,” Michael interjected with that horse voice he had when he tried to sound serious.

“I think we should talk as a family about how to handle this money in the best way.

There is nothing to talk about, Michael.

The money is mine and I will decide what to do with it.

Mom, be reasonable.

Patricia intervened.

We’re not asking you to give us everything.

We just want you to help us a little bit.

Michael also has his financial problems.

I looked at my older son, this 35year-old man who had never been able to keep a job for more than 6 months in a row.

And what are your financial problems, Michael? He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

Well, I owe some house payments and I have some outstanding debts.

What kind of debts? That doesn’t matter, Mom.

The important thing is that we are family and families help each other.

Families help each other.

I repeated slowly.

How interesting that you say that now after 8 years in which I practically didn’t exist to you.

The two siblings looked at each other with that complicity I knew very well since they were children.

It was the same look they exchanged when they had broken something in the house and were deciding what lie they were going to tell me.