My wife and I worked hard to retire early with comfortable savings and even paid for our kids’ college. Recently, our son racked up massive debt and asked us to bail him out. I said no. He smirked, “You’ll regret this.” The next day, his wife called, frantic—he’d left in the middle of the night and never came back. At first, we thought he just needed space, but by nightfall we were worried. No calls, no messages.
We filed a missing person report. The police weren’t concerned—he was an adult with no signs of foul play—but he had vanished: no social posts, no transactions. A week later, we got a note: “I told you you’d regret it.” I felt shame and worry. We had given him a lot already.
A month later, his wife called again: he was in Thailand, having drained their savings, taken loans in her name, and bought a ticket out. He was posting beach selfies, bragging about his “freedom.” My wife sobbed. I wanted to drag him home, but instead I wrote him a letter admitting regret—not for refusing his demands, but for not seeing how lost he was. I never sent it.
His wife filed for divorce and rebuilt her life. About a year later, he showed up at our door—thin, sunburned, changed. He said running away felt empty, and he’d burned through the money and survived on odd jobs. I listened as he began to explain.