Derek stood slightly behind them, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“Mom,” Rebecca sobbed, “please. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.
But this is killing me. You’re my mother. How can you do this to me?”
The guilt was a physical weight.
Was I overreacting?
She was my daughter.
My only child.
Maybe we could work this out. Maybe.
Then I saw Derek’s hand on Rebecca’s shoulder—squeezing, directing, controlling. And I saw Rebecca glance at him before crying harder, as if on cue.
Performance.
This was all performance.
They finally left.
Derek’s expression as he walked away was pure fury.
That night, I didn’t sleep. Every sound made me jump. What if they came back?
What if they broke in? What if Derek’s threat about guardianship was real?
Sunday, I drove to a hotel—just for a few nights, just until I felt safe again. I needed distance.
I needed to think clearly without fear of them showing up.
At the hotel desk, the clerk smiled. “Reservation for Morrison?”
“Yes. Three nights, please.”
I spent those three days resting, walking in a park nearby, eating quiet meals, not answering calls from unknown numbers—letting my mind settle.
By Wednesday, the fear had transformed into something else: cold, determined resolve.
On Thursday morning, I returned home to find a gift basket on my doorstep.
Expensive chocolates, wine, cheese. A card read: “Mom, we love you. Please forgive us.
Let’s start over.”
Rebecca.
I brought it inside and threw it in the trash. The card, too.
An hour later, flowers arrived—two dozen roses. Another card: “Family is forever.
Don’t let pride destroy us.”
I called the florist and told them to stop accepting orders for my address.
Friday, a letter came—not via certified mail, just regular post. Rebecca’s handwriting on expensive stationery.
“Dear Mom,
I’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened. You’re right to be hurt.
I should have asked permission before accessing your account. I was scared and desperate and I made bad choices.
Derek and I are struggling financially. His company cut commissions by 40% last quarter, and we’re behind on our mortgage.
We didn’t want to worry you.
The things Derek said at dinner were cruel and wrong. He’s promised to apologize in person. He’s been under tremendous stress, but that’s no excuse.
Please, can we talk?
Just you and me. No lawyers, no Derek—just mother and daughter. I miss you.
I miss Sunday dinners and our talks. I miss my mom.
I’ll pay back every penny. I promise.
But please don’t throw away our relationship over money. You’re all I have.
Love always,
Rebecca”
I read it twice.
It was good. Persuasive.
The details about Derek’s commission cuts added credibility.
The daughter-to-mother appeal tugged at something deep inside me.
Then I noticed something.
The stationery.
Expensive. Embossed. Probably $40 for a box.
The same woman who claimed to be desperate and behind on her mortgage had expensive stationery.
I took a photo of the letter and emailed it to Mr.
Hendrickx with a note: documentation.
His response came within an hour.
“Good instincts. Save everything. They’re building a paper trail to show they tried to reconcile while you remained unreasonable.
Don’t respond.”
I didn’t.
But Saturday, I realized I needed support. Real support. I couldn’t fight this battle alone, surrounded by silence and doubt.
I called Helen, my friend from Morrison and Klein.
We’d worked together for 15 years before she retired early to travel. She lived in Columbus now, about two hours away, but we’d stayed in touch through emails and occasional lunches.
“Margaret, it’s been months. How are you?”
“I need advice,” I said, “and maybe just someone to tell me I’m not crazy.”
I told her everything—the dinner, the theft, the legal letters, the threats of guardianship, the gifts and apologies now arriving daily.
Helen listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
Then: “That son of a—”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Both. Margaret, you’re doing exactly the right thing. Don’t you dare back down.”
“But what if they’re right?
What if I’m overreacting? She’s my daughter.”
“She’s an adult who stole from you. Listen to me.
I’ve seen this before. My sister-in-law went through something similar with her son. They start with small amounts, then bigger ones.
They test boundaries. And when you finally push back, they play victim and accuse you of being the problem.”
“They’re threatening guardianship.”
“That’s an empty threat. You’re financially sophisticated, mentally sharp, and independent.
No judge would grant guardianship unless you were truly incapacitated. They’re trying to scare you.”
Her certainty was like oxygen.
“You really think so?”
“I know.” She took a breath. “So, Margaret, I want you to do something for me.
Make a list of five people who know you well—colleagues, neighbors, friends—people who can attest to your competence. Get their contact information. If this goes to court, they’ll be your witnesses.”
That afternoon, I made the list.
Helen Patterson, former colleague, friend.
Dr.
Sarah Kim, my physician for 12 years.
Robert Chen, my former supervisor at Morrison and Klein.
Patricia Walsh, my neighbor for eight years.
Father Michael Torres, priest at my church—though I only attended occasionally.
I called each one, briefly explaining the situation. Every single person offered immediate support.
Dr. Kim said, “Margaret, I’ll write a letter about your health and cognitive status.
No charge. What they’re doing is elder abuse.”
Patricia Walsh said, “I see you every week, Margaret. You maintain your home.
You drive. You’re sharp as a tack. If you need me to testify, I will.”
Robert Chen said, “I’d trust you to manage my portfolio right now.
Those kids don’t know who they’re messing with.”
By Sunday evening, I had written statements from all five people—professional, detailed, unshakable.
Monday morning, I sent them to Mr. Hendrickx. His response was immediate.
“Excellent.
This is exactly what we need. How are you holding up?”
I thought about the question.
How was I holding up?
“I’m angry,” I typed back. “But I’m also clear.
For the first time in months—maybe years—I’m absolutely clear about what needs to happen.”
“Good,” he replied. “Because they’re not done yet. Be prepared.”
Tuesday evening, I was making dinner when the doorbell rang.
I checked the peephole. Rebecca stood alone on my porch—no Derek in sight. She looked smaller somehow, wearing jeans and a simple sweater.
Nothing designer. Her eyes were red.
I hesitated.
This was the moment I’d been dreading—not Derek’s anger, but Rebecca’s pain.
I opened the door, but kept the chain lock engaged.
“Mom.” Her voice broke. “Please.
Just five minutes. I came alone. Derek doesn’t even know I’m here.
Please.”
Against my better judgment, I removed the chain.
She stepped inside, and I saw her glance around my small entryway as if seeing it for the first time in years. Or perhaps seeing it differently now that she knew what I was worth.
We sat in my living room. I didn’t offer tea or coffee.
This wasn’t a social visit.
“Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot,” Rebecca said. She twisted her hands in her lap. “About everything.
About how I treated you. How I let Derek treat you.”
I waited.
“You’re right. I should have defended you at that dinner.
I should have stopped him. I was a coward.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’ve been a terrible daughter.
I got so caught up in trying to keep up with Derek’s lifestyle—with his friends, with appearances—I lost sight of what matters.”
“Did Derek’s commission really get cut?” I asked quietly.
She looked away. “Yes, but not by 40%. Maybe 15%.”
“So you lied in your letter.”
“I exaggerated,” she whispered.
“Mom… we’re drowning.
The mortgage is $4,200 a month. Derek’s car payment is $890. We have credit card debt over $60,000.
We’re trying to maintain this image, this life, and we can’t afford it. We never could.”
Part of me wanted to comfort her. Part of me wanted to say, I’ll help you.
But I thought about the stolen $7,500.
The humiliation at dinner. The threats of guardianship.
“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?” I asked. “Why steal?
Why humiliate me?”
Rebecca wiped her eyes. “Derek said—” She stopped herself. “No.
I can’t blame him. I made my own choices. I was embarrassed, ashamed.
We sold you this story about Derek being successful, about us having it all together. Admitting we were failing felt impossible.”
“So you took my money and called me poor instead.”
She flinched. “I never called you poor.”
“You sat there while your husband did.
Silently. That’s the same thing, Rebecca.”
“I know.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Mom, I’m so sorry.
I’ll pay back every penny. I’ll get a second job. I’ll sell things—whatever it takes.
But please… can we fix this? Can we go back to how things were?”
And there it was—the question I’d been avoiding.
Could we?
Did I even want to?
“How things
