I was married to David for five years when his 16-year-old son, Josh, moved in—and from day one, he made it clear I was the enemy. He mocked my cooking, my hobbies, and the family I came from. The word “Mom” was a dagger whenever I tried to help. David comforted me, saying, “He’s just hurting,” but I hurt too.
When Josh’s senior year arrived and the costs of college weighed heavily on us, I offered my inheritance to help him—only to have both David and Josh interpret it as a way to “buy” affection. Hurt, I withdrew completely.
Years passed and I faded into the background—until Josh called one day out of the blue: he and his fiancée wanted me to fund their \$75,000 destination wedding, even though I wasn’t invited. I refused.
That night at dinner, I presented them with a contract and check—enough for the wedding and honeymoon—but only if Josh would acknowledge me as his mother, include me in family events, call me “Mom,” and treat me with respect. Josh signed angrily, believing he’d finally made me his mother—for a price.
Then I threw the contract and check into the fire. I handed David divorce papers, saying I refuse to be a wife—or a mother—where my only value is monetary. I walked away, telling them good luck finding someone else willing to buy their way in.