For two years, I wiped noses, packed lunches, and played superhero every single weekday—for free. I hit pause on my life so my son and his wife could live theirs, chasing promotions and pretending they had it all together. They called me “amazing,” “selfless,” and “a second mom” to their kids. Then I asked for a little help—just a few bills after a tight month. My son didn’t even blink before saying, “You’re owed nothing. You chose to do this.” The next morning, their perfect routine crumbled—and I hadn’t even started teaching them the real lesson yet.
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen. Every weekday started the same, making breakfast for Emma and Jake. "Cereal, Nana!" Jake chirped, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. Emma was still rubbing sleep from her eyes, a sleepy mess. A splash of milk, a sprinkle of sugar, and two bowls later, the morning chaos was handled. I smiled, watching them eat while sipping my coffee, trying to hide my tiredness.