Sometimes I wonder if everything would have been different if my dad hadn’t died that spring morning. I was only six, but I remember it like it was yesterday. Dad was making pancakes—his Sunday special. He always shaped them into funny faces that made me giggle. Mom was setting the table, humming some tune I can’t remember anymore.
“Lily, princess, come help your old man flip these masterpieces!” Dad called out, waving his spatula like a magic wand.
I jumped off the couch, leaving my favorite stuffed bunny behind, and ran to the kitchen. That’s when it happened. The spatula clattered to the floor, and Dad clutched his chest, his face twisted in pain. Everything after that is a blur of ambulance sirens, hospital corridors, and Mom crying. Just like that, my father was gone, leaving behind an empty house that felt too big and too quiet.
Mom didn’t cry for long, though. She met Richard at some community support group for widowed parents. He seemed nice enough—tall, with kind eyes and a gentle smile that reminded me a bit of Dad. Within a year, they were married, and he moved into our house. I was trying to adjust to having a new father figure when Mom dropped another bombshell: she was pregnant.
I remember her face glowing with excitement as she told me I was going to be a big sister. I was eight when Tommy was born, and that’s when everything changed. That’s when Mom quit her job as an elementary school teacher.
“Tommy needs me,” she’d say whenever anyone questioned her decision. “These early years are crucial for a child’s development.”
I wanted to ask about my early years, about whether they hadn’t been crucial too, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I watched as Mom’s world gradually shrank until it revolved entirely around Tommy. She’d forget to pack my lunch for school, then act surprised when I mentioned being hungry at dinner.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she’d say distractedly, already turning back to Tommy.
It wasn’t just once or twice. It became our new normal. Richard noticed. I’d catch him watching Mom with a worried frown as she fussed over Tommy, completely ignoring me at the dinner table. One evening, as I sat alone doing my homework, he sat down beside me.
“You know, Lily,” he said quietly, “sometimes people get so caught up in one thing that they forget to see what else they might be missing.”
As Tommy grew older, the tension in our house became impossible to ignore. Richard tried talking to Mom countless times about her obsession with Tommy, but it always ended the same way—with Mom getting defensive and angry.
I remember one particular evening when Richard brought it up during dinner. Tommy was about five, pushing his food around his plate while Mom hovered over him, trying to convince him to eat just one more bite.
“Sarah,” Richard said, putting down his fork, “we need to talk about this. You can’t keep hovering over him like this. He needs to learn to do things on his own.”
Mom’s face immediately hardened.
“What are you trying to say? That I’m a bad mother?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Richard replied, keeping his voice calm. “But you’ve got two kids here, not one. And a husband, too, by the way.”
I pretended to be very interested in my mashed potatoes, but I was hanging on every word.
“Tommy needs me!” Mom snapped. “He’s still so young!”
“I was young too,” I muttered under my breath, but nobody seemed to hear me.
The situation came to a head when Richard suggested enrolling Tommy in Little League Baseball. I was sitting on the stairs, supposedly doing my homework, when I heard them arguing in the kitchen.
“Absolutely not!” Mom’s voice was shrill. “Do you know how dangerous baseball can be? He could get hit by the ball or twist his ankle!”
“For God’s sake, Sarah,” Richard said, exasperated. “He needs to experience life! You can’t protect him from everything.”
But Mom wouldn’t budge. Instead, she enrolled Tommy in art classes at the community center. I still remember Tommy’s sullen face as he sat there, mindlessly dragging his brush across paper while other kids actually tried to learn. He quit after three sessions, and Mom blamed the teacher for not understanding her son’s creative spirit.
Meanwhile, Richard started spending more time with me. Maybe it was his way of balancing out Mom’s behavior, or maybe he just saw a kid who needed someone in her corner. He’d take me to my karate classes three times a week, sitting through every session, cheering louder than any other parent when I earned my belts. But while I was flourishing under Richard’s attention, Tommy was becoming increasingly difficult.
He’d leave his room a complete mess—toys and clothes everywhere—and Mom would turn to me with that look I’d come to dread.
“Lily, be a dear and clean up Tommy’s room,” she’d say—not really asking, but telling.
One day, Richard caught wind of this arrangement.
“She’s not his maid, Sarah,” he protested. “He needs to learn to clean up after himself.”
That’s when Mom burst into tears, pulling out her ultimate weapon.
“I knew it! You love her more than your own son! How can you treat Tommy this way?”
I watched Richard’s face fall, saw the fight leave his eyes. He looked at me apologetically, then raised his hands in surrender.
“Fine, have it your way,” he said quietly, walking away.
After that, he stopped arguing with Mom about Tommy. But the look he gave me said everything—he hadn’t given up on me, even if he’d given up on fighting with Mom. It was a small comfort, but sometimes small comforts are all we have.
High school graduation day was bittersweet. As I stood in my cap and gown, scanning the crowd, I spotted Richard beaming proudly. Mom was there too, but she kept checking her phone, probably texting Tommy’s babysitter. Later that evening, Richard called me into his study.
“I’ve been saving up,” he said, pulling out a folder full of college brochures. “You can go wherever you want, Lily. Sky’s the limit.”
Before I could respond, Mom burst in.
“You can’t be serious!” she exclaimed. “That money should be saved for Tommy’s future. He’s going to need it more.”
Richard’s face hardened—an expression I’d grown familiar with during these confrontations.
“This is non-negotiable, Sarah. I’ve already made my decision.”
I ended up choosing Marshall University in West Virginia—far enough to start fresh but not so far that I couldn’t visit occasionally. The day Richard helped me move into my dorm, Mom couldn’t come because Tommy had anxiety about her leaving.
College life was exactly what I needed. For the first time, I felt free from the shadow of being the less-favored child. I called home weekly, but my conversations were mostly with Richard. Mom was always too busy with Tommy.
“Your brother’s going through a difficult phase,” Richard explained during one of our calls. His voice sounded tired. “He’s hanging out with these kids from the wrong side of the tracks. I tried getting him involved in some after-school programs, but your mother—”
“Let me guess,” I interrupted. “She said you were being too hard on him?”
“Exactly,” Richard sighed. “She called me a tyrant for suggesting he might need some structure.”
Mom’s disappointed face said it all, but by then, even he had largely given up on trying to intervene.
By 27, I had finally saved enough for a down payment on my own place. It wasn’t huge—just a one-bedroom apartment in a decent neighborhood—but it was mine. The day I got the keys, I couldn’t stop smiling. All those years of saving, of brown-bag lunches and saying no to designer clothes, had finally paid off.
“You all have to come see it!” I said during my weekly call home. “I’m having a housewarming party next Saturday. I’ll cook dinner. Richard, I’m even making your favorite lasagna.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, kiddo,” Richard replied warmly.
Mom’s voice cut in on the other line.
“Oh, honey, I don’t think we can make it.”
“What kind of plans?” I asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“Very important ones,” Mom said vaguely. I could hear Tommy’s video game blasting in the background.
The day of the housewarming, only Richard showed up. He brought a potted plant and a bottle of wine.
“Your mother sends her love,” he said, but we both knew that was a lie.
Over dinner, Richard filled me in on what was really happening at home. Tommy, now 20, hadn’t bothered with college and spent his days either gaming or hanging out with his drinking buddies. Richard had tried to help, offering him a position at his construction company as a starting point.
“You know,” Richard explained, twirling pasta on his fork, “everyone needs to start somewhere. But Sarah,” he shook his head. “Sarah said it would be beneath him. Can you believe that?”
“Tommy was too intelligent for manual labor,” I muttered. “Too intelligent to work, but not too intelligent to mooch off his parents.”
Richard gave me a sad smile.
“I keep trying, Lily. God knows I keep trying.”
That was the last real conversation we had.
Two years later, I got the call that changed everything. Richard had collapsed at work—a massive heart attack, just like my father. By the time I made it to the hospital, he was gone.
The funeral was surreal. Mom put on quite a show, sobbing dramatically and telling anyone who would listen what a wonderful husband Richard had been. “We were so happy!” she wailed. “How will we manage without him?”
I watched her performance with a mix of disgust and pity. Her tears weren’t for Richard. They were for herself. I could see the wheels turning behind her grief-stricken facade. Richard had been the sole breadwinner. Without his income, how would she maintain Tommy in the lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed?
Tommy didn’t even bother to wear a proper suit to the funeral. He showed up in wrinkled khakis and a polo shirt that had seen better days. He spent most of the service staring at his phone, while Mom made excuses for him.
“He’s processing his grief in his own way,” she said.
Standing there at Richard’s grave, I couldn’t help but think about how history had repeated itself. Another father figure, another heart attack, another funeral. Only this time, I was old enough to see everything clearly—including the fact that Mom’s tears were more about her bank account than her broken heart.
A year after Richard’s death, I had mostly lost touch with Mom and Tommy. What little I knew came from Aunt Linda’s occasional calls.
“They’re getting by on Richard’s savings,” she told me. “Your mom sold his Chevrolet last month. The tools from his workshop went before that.”
I tried not to care. I really did. But when Mom’s number flashed on my phone one Tuesday evening, my heart still skipped a beat.
“Lily,” her voice sounded smaller than I remembered, “I need you to come home.”
Something in her tone made me book a flight for the next day. When I pulled up to our old house, I barely recognized the place. The once-pristine lawn Richard had meticulously maintained was overgrown with weeds. Paint peeled from the window frames, and one of the shutters hung crooked. But the house wasn’t the only thing that had aged poorly.
Mom opened the door, and I had to suppress a gasp. The vibrant woman I remembered had been replaced by someone who looked 20 years older than her actual age. Deep wrinkles lined her face, and her hair, which she’d always kept perfectly colored and styled, showed stark gray roots.
“Come in,” she said, leading me into the living room. The house smelled musty, and dishes were piled in the sink. A thin layer of dust covered everything—this, from the woman who used to make me rewash plates if she spotted a single water spot.
“Mom, what’s going on?” I asked, settling onto the couch. A spring dug into my thigh—another thing Richard would have fixed immediately.
She broke down almost immediately.
“We’re running out of money, Lily. My pension barely covers the utilities, and the savings…” She twisted her hands in her lap. “…they’re almost gone.”
“What about Tommy? Is he helping with expenses?”
Mom’s face did this complicated dance between embarrassment and defensiveness.
“He’s looking for work. It’s not his fault. These employers, they just don’t understand him.”
I felt my jaw tightening.
“Mom, at his age and with no experience, he can’t exactly be picky about—”
“You don’t understand!” she cut me off, her voice rising to that familiar pitch that always preceded a Tommy defense. Then abruptly, her tone changed.
“Lily, we need your help. We won’t survive without it. I hate to ask, but you’re doing so well in your career.”
I knew what was coming. Part of me wanted to refuse, to remind her of all the times she chose Tommy over me. But looking at her worn face, the trembling hands, the desperate eyes, I couldn’t.
“How much do you need?” I asked, already regretting my decision.
When she said $1,500 per month, I nearly choked. That was a significant chunk of my salary, but I found myself nodding anyway.
“Where’s Tommy now?” I asked as I prepared to leave, already regretting my decision.
“Oh, he’s at a job interview,” Mom brightened slightly. “A very promising position with a tech company.”
Through the window, I could see Tommy’s bedroom light on and the familiar flicker of his computer screen. Some things never changed.
True to my word, I set up an automatic transfer of $1,500 to Mom’s account every month. Each time I saw that deduction from my bank balance, I told myself it was the right thing to do, even if it meant postponing my own plans for a bigger apartment or a new car.
I started visiting more frequently, though each visit felt like walking into a time capsule. Tommy was always there—either glued to his computer screen or sprawled on the couch with a beer in hand.
“How’s the job search going?” I’d ask.
“Mind your own business,” he’d snap, or sometimes just grunt and turn up the volume on his game.
During the holidays, I couldn’t stand seeing the living room in such disrepair. The wallpaper was peeling, and there was a water stain on the ceiling that would have driven Richard crazy. So, I spent my Christmas bonus hiring contractors to fix it up.
When Mom sprained her ankle in February, I called to check on her.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” she said, though I could hear the pain in her voice. “Is Tommy helping you?”
“He’s busy with some online interviews,” she said dismissively.
I hired a home health aid the next day. The money I’d been saving for a vacation went to cover her wages for the next three weeks.
Then came the day I walked into the house and found a stranger sprawled across our sofa. She looked like she’d stepped out of a reality TV show—fake nails that could double as weapons, heavy makeup, and clothes that left little to the imagination. She was scrolling through her phone, surrounded by empty chip bags and soda cans.
“Who are you?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I knew the answer.
Tommy emerged from his room.
“This is Candy,” he announced. “My fiancée. She lives here now.”
Candy didn’t even look up from her phone. She just popped her gum loudly. I watched in disbelief as she reached into the grocery bag I just brought and helped herself to the premium cookies I’d bought for Mom.
“Nice to meet you too,” I muttered under my breath.
Later that evening, I called Mom to get her take on the situation.
“Oh, Lily!” she sounded more animated than I’d heard her in months. “Isn’t it wonderful? Tommy’s finally settling down! Candy’s been such a good influence on him. He hasn’t gone out drinking with those awful friends in weeks!”
“That’s because she’s drinking all my imported beer at home,” I thought, remembering the empty bottles I’d spotted in the recycling bin. But I held my tongue.
“And he’s talking about getting a job!” Mom continued excitedly. “Candy’s cousin knows someone at a tech startup. Tommy says it could be his big break.”
I made non-committal noises while thinking about the dozens of “big breaks” Tommy had mentioned over the years, but Mom was so happy living in her bubble of perpetual hope that I didn’t have the heart to burst it.
My next visit home started like any other. I juggled grocery bags as I pushed open the front door, only to stop dead in my tracks. The house looked like a tornado had torn through it—dirty dishes piled high in the sink, takeout containers scattered across every surface, and clothes strewn about the living room floor.
Candy lay sprawled on the couch, perfectly manicured nails tapping away at her phone screen. She didn’t even look up as I set down the groceries.
“You know,” I said, my voice sharp, “you live here rent-free, eating food that I pay for. The least you could do is wash a dish or two.”
She looked up slowly, a smirk playing across her heavily glossed lips.
“Who do you think you are, coming in here giving orders? This isn’t your house.”
“I grew up here,” I shot back. “You’re just a guest.”
That’s when she laughed—a harsh, triumphant sound that made my skin crawl.
“Oh, honey, you’ve got it all wrong. This house belongs to Tommy now. Your mom signed everything over to him. There’s a will and everything.”
I found Mom in the kitchen, organizing coupons she never used.
“Is it true?” My voice sounded strange in my own ears. “Did you make a will leaving everything to Tommy?”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes at first, fiddling with the papers in front of her. Then something seemed to harden in her expression.
“Yes,” she said flatly, “it’s true.”
I don’t understand, the words came out barely above a whisper.
“I’m the one helping you. I’m the one sending money every month. Tommy doesn’t work, doesn’t contribute anything.”
“Don’t you dare talk about your brother that way!” Mom’s voice rose sharply. “You don’t understand him. You never have.”
“Understand what? That he’s a parasite? That he’s perfectly content to live off my money while his girlfriend trashes our home?”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic.” Mom’s face twisted into something I didn’t recognize. “You want to know the truth? I never loved you the way I love Tommy. He’s better than you in every way that matters, and I don’t want to see you here anymore.”
The words hit like physical blows. All these years, I told myself that Mom did love me. She just showed it differently. That somewhere beneath her obsession with Tommy, she cared about me too. Now I knew better.
I turned and walked out, Candy’s triumphant laughter following me down the hall.
21 years of hoping, of making excuses, of trying to earn my mother’s love—all of it ended with the quiet click of a door closing behind me.
The drive home from Mom’s house was a blur. I don’t remember the four-hour trip. Don’t remember climbing the stairs to my apartment. Don’t even remember sitting down on my couch. But I do remember the moment of clarity that came as I stared at my phone’s banking app, the automatic transfer to Mom’s account: $1,500 every month for the past year. My finger hovered over the screen for a moment, before I decisively clicked “Cancel recurring payment.”
The next few weeks, I threw myself into work, trying to ignore the hole in my budget that suddenly felt like an opportunity rather than a burden. I started researching investment options for the money I’d been sending home. Maybe I could finally start saving for a house of my own—a real house, not just an apartment.
Then, exactly one month after my last visit home, Mom called.
“The money didn’t come through,” she said without preamble. No hello. No how are you. “There must be some mistake with the bank.”
“There’s no mistake,” I replied, surprised by how steady my voice was. “I canceled the transfers.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before she exploded.
“You WHAT? How dare you? After everything I’ve done for you?”
I actually laughed at that.
“Everything you’ve done for me? Like what? Mom, forgetting my existence, forcing me to be Tommy’s maid, telling me you never loved me?”
“That’s different!” she cut me off, her voice rising. “She’s using her familiar Tommy-defense voice. You know I was upset, but you can’t just stop helping us. We’re counting on that money! Tommy and Candy are planning a vacation to Cancun.”
“A vacation?” I interrupted, my voice rising. “Tommy needs a vacation from what? Playing video games and drinking beer?”
“Let me tell you something, Mom. Tommy doesn’t need a vacation. He needs a job.”
“How dare you speak about your brother that way! You’re just jealous because—”
“Because what?” I asked.
“Because you left everything to him. Fine, you made your choice. Now he can take care of you. You ungrateful, mercenary little—”
The rest of her tirade dissolved into a stream of accusations and demands. I let her rant for a moment before speaking again.
“Goodbye, Mom. Don’t call me again.”
I blocked her number before she could respond. But Mom wasn’t done. Over the next few weeks, the messages started pouring in through every possible channel. Facebook messages about how she was struggling to pay bills, Instagram comments about what a terrible daughter I was, emails detailing all the sacrifices she’d made for me—most of which I couldn’t remember actually happening.
Tommy joined in too, sending aggressive texts about how I was destroying the family.
“Mom’s crying because of you,” he wrote. “You better start sending money again, or else.”
I blocked him too, but not before replying:
“Here’s a crazy idea—try getting a job.”
Candy even tried reaching out through LinkedIn of all places, with a long message about how I was breaking my poor mother’s heart and how Tommy was too sensitive to handle the stress of work right now. I had to admire her creativity.
It’s been 6 months now. I don’t know how they’re doing, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel guilty about that. Maybe they’ve finally realized that Tommy needs to support himself. Maybe they’re still waiting for me to cave in and start sending money again. Maybe they found someone else to manipulate.
The truth is, I don’t need to know. What I do know is that the $1,500 I used to send them every month has gone into a down payment fund for my own house. I know that I sleep better at night, no longer awakened by angry messages or guilt-tripping calls. I know that Richard would be proud of me for finally standing up for myself.
The other day, I drove past a construction site and saw a “Now Hiring” sign. For a moment, I thought about taking a picture and sending it to Tommy. But then I just smiled and kept driving. Their problems aren’t my problems anymore.
Finally, after all these years, I’m free.