But then I remembered that text message—the pure, undiluted contempt in those words. Don’t expect me to take care of you. He’d shown me the truth. Why was I doubting what I’d seen?
“No, David. We’re done. You made your choice. I’m making mine.”
“You’re going to regret this.”
“Is that a threat?”
Silence. “Then it’s a prediction.” He hung up.
I sat in my kitchen, hands folded on the table, breathing slowly. Was I doing the right thing, or was I letting pride destroy what remained of my family?
I called Linda. She listened to the whole story—the letters, the flowers, the phone calls. “They’re trying to wear you down,” she said. “It’s a classic manipulation tactic. They’re not actually sorry, Margaret. They’re just sorry they’re losing access to your money.”
“But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m being too harsh?”
“Did they apologize for the text message?”
I thought about it. David had said he was stressed, that he didn’t mean it. But he’d never actually said, “I’m sorry for hurting you. I was wrong.” Neither had Jessica.
“No,” I said slowly. “They’ve apologized for my reaction to it, not for doing it.”
“There’s your answer.”
She was right.
And I needed more than Linda’s support. I needed community. I needed to remember that David and Jessica weren’t my only family. I started attending my church group again. I’d let it lapse after Robert died. I reconnected with old friends I’d neglected. I called my niece Emma, who drove down from Seattle the following weekend and took me to lunch.
Emma listened to everything, her young face serious. At 28, she was closer to David’s age than mine, but she understood what I couldn’t say to my peers. “Aunt Margaret,” she finally said, “some people are takers. They don’t see relationships as mutual. They see them as transactions. It sounds like David and Jessica are takers.”
“He’s my son,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said gently, “and that makes it hurt worse. But you’re still allowed to protect yourself.”
The support helped. Every conversation, every coffee date, every church service reminded me that I wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t crazy, that setting boundaries didn’t make me a bad person.
By the end of the second week, the calls from David and Jessica had stopped. The silence was both a relief and unsettling. What were they planning? Were they consulting lawyers, or had they finally accepted my decision?
I should have known better than to hope for acceptance.
They appeared on a Sunday morning, three weeks after my return from Linda’s. I was having breakfast when I heard voices in my driveway—David’s, Jessica’s, and the children’s high-pitched excitement. My grandchildren. They’d brought my grandchildren.
I opened the door before they could ring the bell. Charlie, six years old, ran forward. “Grandma, we brought you cookies. Mom said you weren’t feeling well.”
My heart clenched. I hugged him, breathing in his little-boy smell—grass and fruit snacks. His sister Mia, four, hung back shyly, then came forward for her hug, too. Over their heads, I met David’s eyes. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his expression.
“We thought we’d surprise you,” Jessica said brightly. “It’s such a beautiful day. We could have a family picnic in your backyard, just like old times.”
“You should have called first,” I said carefully, pulling back from the children.
“Grandma, don’t you want to see us?” Charlie’s voice was confused, hurt.
What was I supposed to say to that? That yes, I wanted to see him, but not as a manipulation tool. That I loved him desperately. But his parents had poisoned our relationship by using him as leverage.
“Of course I want to see you, sweetheart,” I said. “But grown-ups should always call before visiting.”
“We did call,” David said. “You didn’t answer.”
Because I’d seen his name and let it go to voicemail, because I needed to protect my peace.
“Come on, Mom,” he pressed. “Let us in. The kids are excited to spend time with their grandma—unless you’re going to turn away your own grandchildren.”
His tone was light, but the threat underneath was clear: Reject us, and you’re rejecting them.
I stepped aside. What choice did I have?
They settled in my living room—the children on the floor with coloring books Jessica had conveniently brought, David and Jessica on my sofa like they owned it. Jessica unpacked a container of homemade cookies, which she knew were my favorite. David commented on how nice the house looked, how well I was maintaining it. Every word was calculated.
“So,” Jessica said after twenty minutes of painful small talk, “we’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened, and we want to apologize.”
“We do,” David echoed. “Mom, we handled this badly. I never should have sent that text. I was frustrated—about work, about money stress—and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
It sounded rehearsed. And the children were coloring ten feet away while I was supposed to believe this was genuine.
