I married David five years before his son Josh moved in. From day one, Josh made it clear I wasn’t his mother. He mocked my cooking, music, even my speech. I tried to connect; he gave me nothing.
By his senior year, college loomed and money was tight. I offered my inheritance for tuition—no strings. Josh snapped, “You can’t buy your way into being my mom.” David sided with him. That was the end of my efforts.
Five years passed. Then Josh called—needing money for his destination wedding. I wasn’t invited. “If you care, help,” he insisted. David urged me to “make things right.” Fix what? Being seen as an outsider?
Reluctantly, I agreed to dinner. They revealed plans for a $75,000 wedding. I returned with a check…and a contract: call me “Mom,” include me, respect me. He signed. I burned the contract, handed David divorce papers, and said I refuse to stay where I’m just a bank.