As a mother of seven, I have always done my best to treat my children with love and fairness. My youngest, Rick, is my only son. When his turn came to get married, he asked me how much I had spent on his sisters’ wedding dresses. When I told him the cost was around $8,300, he responded with something that took me completely by surprise.
“Well then, I’ll take a check for $8,300!” he said.
I blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’m getting married too, and I want what you gave my sisters,” he insisted. “I could really use that money!”
Shocked, I reminded him that he had chosen to rent his tuxedo and had even gone with his father to pick it out.
“I know,” he said coolly, “but I still think you owe me that money. I’m your child too. It’s my right.”
The word “right” made my blood run cold. “You think you have a right to money?” I asked, my voice rising.
“Yes! You never loved me the way you loved my sisters, and now you’re proving it!” he shouted.
Tears welled in my eyes. “That’s not true, Rick. I love all of you equally.”
“So you won’t give me the money?” he asked, his anger growing. “Sandy’s parents are giving us an apartment and $200,000 as a wedding gift. All I wanted was a little pocket change from you.”
When I stood firm in my decision, his face twisted in fury. “Fine! If that’s how you feel, then don’t bother coming to my wedding! Dad’s invited, but you’re not!”
That night, I told my husband, Robert, everything. He sat quietly, absorbing my words, his expression darkening. When I finished, he exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples.
“This isn’t like him,” he muttered. “Where is this coming from?”
I wiped a tear from my cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s been holding onto this resentment for years. Maybe seeing Sandy’s parents’ generosity made him feel like we owed him something. But banning me from his wedding over money?” My voice cracked. “I never imagined my own son would do this.”
Robert stood abruptly, grabbed his car keys, and said, “I’ll talk to him.”
The next morning, Rick stormed into our house, seething.
“HOW COULD YOU, DAD?!” he bellowed.
I looked between them, my heart pounding. “What’s going on?”
Rick’s face was red with rage. “Dad told me he’s not coming to the wedding either!”
I turned to Robert, who stood firm, arms crossed.
“You disrespected your mother,” Robert said calmly. “You tried to guilt her into giving you money and, when she wouldn’t, you punished her by banning her from your wedding. That’s not love, Rick. That’s manipulation.”
Rick scoffed. “So you’re choosing her over me?”
Robert’s eyes hardened. “No, son. I’m choosing respect over entitlement.”
Rick clenched his fists. “You paid for my sisters’ dresses! Why not me?”
I took a deep breath and spoke, my voice steady. “Your sisters’ dresses weren’t cash handouts. They were part of their wedding expenses—just like you and Dad picking out your tux. We never gave them money outright. And not one of them demanded ‘their share’ like this was some kind of business deal.”
Rick stared at us, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He was waiting for one of us to cave.
We didn’t.
His face darkened. “Fine. If you don’t care about me, I don’t care about you. Don’t come to my wedding.”
And just like that, he turned and walked out.
Months passed. The wedding came and went.
We weren’t there.
And in the silence that followed, my heart ached.
Then, one evening, the phone rang.
I hesitated before answering.
“Mom?” Rick’s voice was unsteady.
I swallowed hard. “Yes, sweetheart?”
A long pause. Then—
“I’m sorry.”
And just like that, my son found his way home.