‘Leftovers?’ She practically spit the word out. ‘And this is what I’m worth? I gave him the best years of my life! I put up with his family, his stupid fishing trips, his constant disappointments!’
The conversation spiralled further. She began throwing around accusations of unpaid child support, her voice growing louder with each assertion. Her hands were shaking and she gesticulated wildly, nearly knocking over a glass of water.
‘How much did you get?’ – she demanded. ‘He’s owed me for years! You owe me at least several thousand. I raised you!’
Something inside me shivered. Maybe it was the grief, maybe the years of therapy had finally taken their toll, but I felt surprisingly calm as I replied.
‘Okay, I’ll give it to you. But on one condition!’ I met her gaze firmly. ‘Prove somehow that he didn’t pay you child support, that you raised me alone, and that you didn’t kick me out of the house when I was underage.’
Her face took on a few interesting shades. ‘Well, but… I raised you anyway! Yeah, maybe he contributed some money, but…’
‘Maybe?’ I interrupted her. ‘Maybe? I remember him sending you cheques every month, but you spent that money on yourself. It would have been nice if you’d bought me at least one toy! Instead, I watched you buy designer handbags and I wore shoes with holes in them.’
She began to sputter, her carefully constructed narrative crumbling. ‘You don’t understand! I did everything I could! I tried to teach you important life lessons! Everything I did was for you!’
‘By throwing me out on the street?’ I stood up, finished with my lunch and done with her games. ‘I think it’s time for you to leave.’
‘You can’t just kick your guests out!’ She clutched her purse to her chest, eyes widening with contrived indignation. ‘I’m your mother! You have to respect me!’
‘My house, my rules,’ I said, echoing her words from that night nine years ago. ‘Please leave.’
She tried everything: crying, begging, threatening. I remained firm and walked her to the door. The last thing I saw was her standing in my driveway, mascara dripping down her face as she screamed about ungrateful children.
That evening, as I sat in my dad’s old chair, one of the few pieces of furniture I’d kept in his house, I started getting messages.
‘How dare you treat me like this? The least you can do is give me a few thousand dollars. That’s what I deserve.’
I shook my head and put my phone aside, but then another text notification came in.
‘I see you read my message. Don’t ignore me, you ungrateful brat! I want what’s owed to me! Give me the money!’
This went on and on, but I didn’t respond to a single message.
I considered sending her a penny, but even that was more than she ‘deserved’. Eventually I switched off the phone and curled up in my armchair, breathing in the familiar smells of leather and Dad’s cologne.
For the first time since his death, I let myself cry. Not just for him, but for the fifteen-year-old girl who needed a mother and got a manipulator instead. For the years of lies and persuasion. All of it.
But mostly I cried because I finally felt free.
Dad had given me my first taste of freedom when he found me at the orphanage, and now, standing up for Mum, I had completed what he had started.
Some people say you can’t choose your family. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, your family chooses you. Dad chose me. And that was enough.