I saved $1M for my children’s gift, but they ditched me for their new mom on my birthday, so I...

I won the lottery this year: $20 million. It just so happened that my 66th birthday was a week away. I plan to share this incredible surprise with my children when they come over to celebrate. I had it all figured out: after taxes, I would take the remaining winnings and buy a luxury home for each of them, my son Logan and my daughter Luna. On top of that, I'd write each of them a check for a million dollars. But when my birthday finally arrived, I sat at the dining table staring at the spread of carefully

prepared dishes, waiting and waiting. By 10:00 that night, neither Logan nor Luna had shown up. I called them both multiple times, but no one picked up. A creeping unease settled in my chest. That afternoon, around 3:00 or 4:00, Luna had called, saying she had to stay late at work and might be home later than expected. Shortly after, Logan texted me, saying there was an issue with a project he was managing and he’d be delayed as well. I hadn't thought much of it at the time; I simply told them that work came first. But now it

was already 10:00. Half an hour ago, I’d sent a message in our family WhatsApp group asking when they would be coming. It was still marked as unread. With a heavy heart, I pushed back my chair and moved to the couch. On the coffee table lay two real estate contracts and two checks: a luxury home for each of them, a million dollars in cash—a surprise I had been waiting all day to give. Some of my yoga friends had recently gotten into lottery fever, insisting I should try my luck. I played along, never expecting that I would

actually win. When I saw the winning numbers, I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t sleep the entire night. I hadn’t told anyone; they always say wealth shouldn’t be flaunted. I chose to take the lump-sum payout, even though it meant losing 40% to taxes. That still left me with over $10 million. I plan to set aside $3 million for my retirement and divide the rest equally between Luna and Logan. Somewhere between thinking and waiting, sleep crept up on me, and I dozed off on the couch. I wasn’t sure how long I had been asleep when my phone

suddenly rang. It was Luna. I answered, but before I could say anything, she spoke in a rushed, apologetic tone. “Mom, I’m so sorry! Work was crazy today, and I just couldn't step away. It's too late now, so I'll just head back to my apartment. You should go to bed early.” She barely gave me a chance to respond before the call ended. I glanced at the screen: it was 11:47 p.m. Luna’s workplace was far from home, and I had worried about her long commute, so after her internship ended, I rented her an apartment near her office.

I stared at the dark screen for a long moment. Another 10 minutes passed, and Logan still hadn’t reached out. He was probably caught up with work, too. With a sigh, I stretched my aching back and slowly got up. I wrapped each untouched dish on the table with plastic wrap and carefully placed them in the fridge. The real estate contracts and checks I tucked away in my bedside drawer. By the time everything was put away and I was ready for bed, it was nearly 1:00 in the morning, and just like that, the birthday I had been

so eager to celebrate was over. I woke up the next morning; my phone remained silent—no birthday messages from Luna or Logan. I sent a message in our family group chat: “It's Saturday; come home for dinner. I have a surprise for you,” but no one replied. After breakfast, I went out for a walk. I ran into my neighbor Mary, who was out walking her dog. She smiled at me and asked, “You’re usually out bright and early; what took you so long today?” I gave her an awkward smile, too embarrassed to admit I’d stayed up late waiting

for my children. Mary chuckled. “Let me guess, you spent the whole day cooking yesterday and wore yourself out.” When I didn’t answer, she continued, “I told you ages ago just to book a nice dinner at a hotel: less stress, less hassle. But no, you insisted Logan likes spicy food, Luna likes sweet and sour, and your granddaughter needs a healthy kids' meal. Do you think a fancy restaurant can't handle that? Honestly, you go through all this trouble just for them.” Her words stopped me in my tracks. For the first time, I truly thought about it: my

entire life had revolved around my children. Before my divorce, after my divorce—had I ever put myself first? Before I could dwell on that thought, a sharp, mocking voice cut through the morning air. “Oh, Mary, don’t act like she’s some poor self-sacrificing mother. She just loves to show off, always bragging about how devoted Logan and Luna are—what a joke!” I turned toward the voice. It was Sammy, an old neighbor I never got along with. We had worked at the same fashion export company before I retired early, even competing for the European market manager position. I got

the promotion; my French was more fluent, and my skills outmatched hers. Sammy never accepted that. She believed I only won because of my language skills, not my abilities. Since then, things between us had always been tense. Now, she looked me up and down, her lips curling in disdain. “Not even a single piece of decent jewelry on you; I wonder how you’ve been treating yourself all these years.” I had no interest in arguing with her, so I turned to Mary. “I’m heading outside the neighborhood for a bit.” You too, chat. I started walking away, but Sammy

stepped in front of me. "I waited here all morning just to do you a favor; don't be ungrateful!" She crossed her arms and smirked. "Last night was my grandson's birthday. We had dinner at a restaurant, and guess what? I saw the most ridiculous show." I exhaled sharply. "Thanks for your concern, but I'm not interested. Can I leave now?" Sammy's face darkened with an irritated huff. She pulled out her phone, scrolled through her album, and shoved the screen in my hand. "I don't need to explain anything; just watch." I reflexively tried to push it back, but

the moment my eyes landed on the screen, I froze. It was a video: a woman in a red dress, her hair elegantly pinned up, smiling warmly as she greeted guests. I recognized her instantly—Chloe, my ex-husband Jeff Smith's mistress. Standing beside her, linking arms with her affectionately, they were laughing, talking, looking radiant together. The camera shook briefly before settling on two men standing by the stage—Logan and his biological father, Jeff. Behind them, two banners stood tall with blaring messages: "Happy 25th wedding anniversary Jeff and Chloe" and "Happy birthday Chloe." My granddaughter appeared on the screen, her

small hands clutching Khloe’s as she chirped sweetly, "Grandma Chloe, you're so pretty! Way prettier and nicer than my other grandma." She tilted her head up, eyes filled with innocent joy. "I want you to be my real grandma! Next week is our preschool sports day. Can you and Grandpa come watch me?" A deafening silence rang in my head. The video ended, but Sammy wasn't done. "You should have seen Logan!" she sneered. "Bought that old witch a solid gold bracelet! Must have been close to 10 grand! I overheard his wife in the restroom bragging about it on

the phone." She scoffed. "Oh, and he got Jeff a whole crate of Hennessy Brandy—not cheap!" Sammy clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Funny, isn't it? Every time he visits you, he can't even be bothered to bring a six-pack of beer. And your precious Luna? Don't even get me started! She got Chloe an entire gold jewelry set—necklace, earrings, rings, the whole deal! Kept calling her 'Mom' like it was the most natural thing in the world." She turned to me with a sickly sweet smile. "Didn't you always brag about how devoted they are to you? Strange,

I don't see you getting even a crumb!" Mary grabbed Sammy's arm, trying to stop her, but Sammy yanked it away. "No!" she snapped. "She needs to hear this. She needs to see the kind of ungrateful, backstabbing wolves she raised! Always scrimping and saving for them; even sold her big house to help out! What a joke! She did all that just to fool herself into thinking they actually care!" The words hit like a sledgehammer. I felt like I was drowning. I returned the phone to Sammy without a word. My legs were unsteady as I turned toward

home, staggering forward in a daze. A bitter metallic taste filled my mouth; I had bitten my lips so hard they had started to bleed. I collapsed onto the couch the moment I stepped inside. Tears, held back for so long, finally broke free. I covered my face as if that could somehow contain the flood of anguish threatening to drown me. But no matter how tightly I pressed my hands against my eyes, the past clawed its way to the surface—relentless and cruel. Memories surged forward like a runaway carousel, peeling back old wounds I had spent years pretending

didn't exist. My marriage to Jeff Smith had been a disaster, so much so that by the time I turned 40, I had given up on the idea of love altogether. I divorced him and never remarried. Jeff was six years older than me. We met through a mutual friend. Back then, he was a tall, clean-cut man with an air of stability—an analyst in the city government's research office with a bright future ahead of him. At 24, I was just a proofreader at a publishing house and not even a full-time employee. My parents saw him as an

ideal match—respectable, well-employed, someone who could even lend a hand to my older brother's career. They told me I was lucky to marry him, so without truly knowing much about his past, I agreed. I only learned the truth later, too late. Jeff had never married before me because he had once been deeply, irrevocably in love—a love so profound that it left him unable to move on, unable to fully invest in any relationship that followed. Marrying me had simply been convenient. By the time I understood this, there was no undoing it. A year after we met, we

were already married. We weren't overly affectionate, but we coexisted peacefully. There was respect, even if there was little passion. I convinced myself it was enough; not every marriage needed to be a whirlwind romance. Stability was good; predictability meant safety. In the third spring of our marriage, I gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl. Thrown headfirst into motherhood, I was overwhelmed—two crying infants, sleepless nights, a body still healing from childbirth. I felt like I was drowning, and I wanted to go back to work. I asked Jeff if his mother, Laura, could come help for a

while, but every time I brought it up, he made excuses. His father was sick; his mother was too busy; she simply couldn't spare the time. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. By the end of the year, Laura still hadn't come. My publishing house couldn't wait forever. When I failed to return, they gave my position to someone else. I was heartbroken but helpless. Then came the twins' first birthday party, and Laura didn't show. Up, that was when resentment first took root in my heart. She was their grandmother, yet in an entire year, she had barely

visited them. Jeff must have noticed my mood because that night he finally gave me an explanation. His mother, he said, had suffered a bad fall while cleaning the house. She had injured her lower back and had been recovering in bed all this time. She hadn't told us because she didn't want to worry us. Guilt hit me like a wave. I had been angry at her, suspecting her of indifference while all along she had been injured. After the party, Jeff's aunt came over to see the children. I pulled her aside, concern tightening my chest. "How bad

is Laura's injury?" I asked. "Does she need better medical care? Maybe she should come to a hospital in San Francisco." As I spoke, I reached into my purse, taking out $1,000. "Can you give this to her when you go back, just in case she needs anything?" Jeff's aunt hesitated; a strange expression crossed her face, half amusement, half pity. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Then finally, she let out a small, mirthless chuckle. "Laura doesn't have a back injury." I stared at her, confused. She sighed and gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher.

"I wasn't going to say anything, but every time I visit, I see you struggling to raise those babies alone, and it just doesn't sit right with me." She glanced around, then leaned in. "The truth is, Jeff arranged for his mother to be a full-time nanny for someone else." I blinked. "What? She's been working as a free babysitter?" Jeff's aunt said, voice low. "For who?" My stomach twisted. "Maybe Jeff's boss?" she said flatly. "The guy travels a lot, and his wife needed help with their kids. Jeff sent his mother to take care of them." I felt

something sharp and cold lodge itself in my throat. I barely managed to whisper, "So she could take care of his boss's children but not her own grandchildren?" The aunt nodded; a suffocating weight settled on my chest. She sighed again, then murmured, "I shouldn't be telling you this, but keep an eye on Jeff. Make sure no one steals him away." Her words sent a shiver down my spine. Then she patted my arm, turned, and walked away. I stood there, frozen, watching her retreating figure, unable to breathe. The words from Jeff's aunt were like a thorn lodged

deep in my skin. That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The next morning, after Jeff left for work, I stepped into his study. I rarely entered this room, only when cleaning, and even then I never touched his personal belongings. I had always believed that even in marriage, there should be personal space. The study was simply furnished: two walls lined with bookshelves, a desk, and a chair. I sat down, pulling open his desk drawer. Inside were a few letters, his office's metal badge, an address book, and some unimportant documents. At the very bottom of

the drawer, I found a black-and-white photograph. I carefully pulled it out. It showed five people. Jeff stood next to a young woman wearing a white floral blouse with ruffled sleeves, her long hair braided into two plaits. I didn't need anyone to tell me the unspoken connection between them was unmistakable—a woman's intuition, perhaps. I flipped the photo over. In the bottom right corner, delicate, elegant handwriting read, "R Bound by heart, love buried deep, April 19, 1969." The writing was soft and graceful, likely hers. 1969—that was Jeff's final year of college. My gaze swept across the study,

finally landing on a locked cabinet at the bottom of the bookshelf. Minutes later, I found the key hidden in the spine of "How the Steel Was Tempered." That night, after putting the twins to bed, I forced myself to sit down and read dozens of letters, and that was barely a third of them. The woman who had written to Jeff was named Chloe. Through her words, I pieced together a love story that had lasted over a decade. They came from the same small town, left home for the same university in an unfamiliar city far from family

and friends. They had leaned on each other, encouraged each other, and eventually fallen in love. Their relationship grew, flourishing in quiet, unspoken moments until they were inseparable. But before Chloe left for college, her family had already arranged a fiancé for her. She had agreed to the engagement. Every month, letters arrived from her betrothed; sometimes he even sent her money for her studies, so their love had to remain in the shadows. By the time they graduated, most students returned home to find work. Chloe's fiancé's family had wealth and connections, and they secured her a job teaching

French at a prestigious private school. Meanwhile, Jeff, after two years of applications, had finally been admitted to a prestigious university up north for graduate school. One married, the other left, but the letters never stopped. When I was newly pregnant with the twins, Chloe had written to Jeff, complaining about the exhaustion of balancing work and child care; her husband, always away on business trips, barely acknowledged their existence. She was overworked and overwhelmed, constantly sore from carrying the burden alone. Jeff, hearing for her, sent his mother, Laura, to help raise Chloe's daughter. That revelation alone was enough

to shatter me, but the next letters—those were the ones that gutted me. "Every time Laura takes care of me, I feel both guilty and happy. I want to call her 'Mom,' but I don't know in what capacity. I feel terrible for your wife. You barely make $1,500 a month, yet you still send me $500 in secret. If she ever found out, she'd throw a fit," you said. Your wife had twins. Well, the only thing I've ever seen give birth to two at once is my dog. I can't even imagine how big she must have been;

just the thought is horrifying. My co-workers joke about how I always get so many letters. I tell them they're from my husband, my love. They think I'm talking about Bruce, the man I married. The inked words are of forbidden intimacy, a humid, suffocating closeness that made me physically ill. That evening, when Jeff came home, I threw the letters in his face, screaming. Fighting—it was a war zone. I had just given birth; I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and now I was unraveling completely. And him? He just stood there, his face impassive, watching my breakdown with

a chilling detachment, as if I were a stranger. Only when I had exhausted my voice, trembling from rage, did he finally sigh in irritation, "Are you done?" he asked, his tone bored. "There's nothing between us, just letters. If it bothers you so much, I'll stop writing them." His words made my fingers go numb, made my legs go weak. But I didn't even have the luxury of breaking down. The twins, hearing the shouting, had woken up and were now wailing from their room. Jeff locked himself in his study, ignoring everything. I wiped my swollen eyes and

forced myself to my feet. The babies were hungry; they needed their nighttime bottle or they wouldn't stop crying. But when I went to the kitchen, the can of formula was empty. A crushing wave of despair crashed over me. I had reminded Jeff for days that we were running low on formula. I had asked him, begged him, to pick some up on his way home—even that morning, before he left for work, I had reminded him again. But he had forgotten, and now it was too late. Something inside me snapped. I stormed to his study and kicked

the locked door open with all my strength. The sight inside made my vision blur with rage. Jeff was sitting at his desk, gently tracing his fingers over Khloe's face in a photograph, his eyes filled with deep affection and longing. He froze when he saw me. I strode over, snatched the photo from his hands, and tore it to pieces. Then I flung the scraps at his feet. "Jeff Smith, you are a lying, heartless bastard!" I screamed. "I want a divorce!" For the first time, he froze. When he finally snapped out of it, he panicked. He scrambled

to gather the torn pieces of Khloe's face, carefully tucking them into his pocket as if they were the most precious thing in the world. Then he turned on me, his face contorted with fury. "You insane, hysterical, irrational shrew!" he bellowed. He tried to storm past me. I grabbed his sleeve, refusing to let him go. His eyes burned red with rage. With both hands, he shoved me hard. I wasn't prepared. The force sent me flying backward, my lower back slamming against the sharp corner of the desk. A searing pain shot through me. I couldn't breathe for

a moment. My vision went completely white. Through the haze, I saw Jeff hesitate, just for a second. Then he turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him. The house fell into silence, except for the heartbreaking cries of my children echoing through the night. I don't remember how I made it through that night—only the chaos, the agony, the relentless cries of my children, their tiny voices piercing my eardrums like needles. The next day, I wrote a letter to Jeff's workplace, the city hall, reporting his inappropriate relationships. But it was as if I had tossed

a pebble into the ocean—no response. When I happened to run into Jeff's supervisor, the man had the audacity to chastise me instead, implying that I was being unreasonable, that I was embarrassing my husband by airing our private matters in public. "Whatever disagreements you have, handle them at home," he told me, his voice dripping with condescension. "Don't drag your husband's workplace into it." I sought help from the local women's support group, but back then, people weren't as willing to intervene in a marriage unless there was undeniable immediate danger. Jeff's affair? It was just letters, not real

cheating. My children were still so young. Their advice? Be patient. Endure. Look at the bigger picture. I was a caged animal, desperately searching for an escape, but every door I tried was locked. My parents and brother were dead set against me divorcing. They said every woman goes through this; just endure it. It'll pass. Once the kids are older, your life will be easier. "Jeff works hard enough as it is; you don't even have a job, so stop making trouble for him. He didn't even bring that woman home, so what exactly are you complaining about?" Every

time I mentioned divorce, he ignored me. Eventually, he simply moved out into a dorm near City Hall, coming home only once every ten days or so. The children were too young to understand; they sucked on their tiny fingers, babbling their first words, oblivious to the growing rift between their parents. For their sake, I swallowed my pride again and again. Like so many women trapped in broken marriages, I had become weak the moment I became a mother. And I had two weaknesses. Seven years. Seven years of degradation, exhaustion, and slow, quiet suffering until the final straw:

Jeff had secretly sent Khloe another thousand dollars to buy herself the latest fully automated washing machine, but the letter had been returned to sender. Khloe had transferred to a new school, and the post office sent it back. I read his words, and for the first time, I felt something inside me snap. We didn't even have a semi-automatic washing machine. Of winter, I was still scrubbing my children's dirty clothes by hand, my fingers raw from the cold. That night, I confronted him; we fought for the first time. He lost control. Furniture was overturned, a vase hurled

at my head, shattering just inches behind me. I didn't hesitate; I called the police, then I called a local news station, asking them to report on how I had nearly been disfigured by my violent husband. The scandal erupted; it spread like wildfire, reaching not just City Hall but the state government. Jeff's upcoming promotion, his transfer to a higher state-level position, was immediately revoked. As younger, more educated officials entered City Hall, his career stagnated. He was demoted; he spent years stuck as an administrative assistant, filing paperwork in the archives. Only then, when he had lost everything,

did he finally sit down and agree to a divorce. It took two months of relentless fighting. Jeff refused to let go of Logan. "If you want to divorce," he said, "I keep our son." I agreed. When it came to money, I was ruthless. I threatened to expose his affair with Khloe to ruin her reputation. In the end, I forced him to return every cent he had spent on her. I had no way of knowing the full amount, but I threw out a number: $50,000. By then, his salary had risen to just over $2,000 a month.

Fifty grand wasn't an impossible sum, but it wasn't pocket change either. Jeff, of course, didn't want Khloe to suffer, but he also couldn't stomach the humiliation of borrowing money from friends. So he mortgaged his parents' house and took out a loan for 50 grand. I'll never forget his expression when he handed me that check; looks could kill. I would have died a thousand times over. The house we had lived in belonged to Jeff before our marriage. I left it behind, but I took everything inside, even the old stew pot that had been patched up twice.

I hauled it all to the flea market and sold every last item. Then, with Luna in my arms, I walked away. Logan was taken in by Jeff's parents. From that day forward, the only connection Jeff and I shared was the occasional exchange of our children. When my father found out I had actually gone through with the divorce, he was furious. I had defied him, so he never came to see me again. My mother, she would sneak visits behind his back, but she never offered support—only endless sighs and tearful laments. She never once asked me what

I planned to do next, never once asked me how I would survive. I was disappointed, but I no longer begged for love that would never come. The road ahead was uncertain, difficult, and unforgiving, but at least I had cut myself free from that disgusting, rotting marriage; at least I was no longer the discarded wife in someone else's love story, pathetically struggling to hold on. After the divorce, I used the money I had secured to buy a 650-ft apartment. It wasn't much, but it was mine. I bought a few pieces of furniture, transferred Luna to a

new school, and once everything was settled, I turned my attention to something I had been looking forward to: payback. I penned a commendation letter to Bruce, Khloe's husband. I praised his wife's unwavering kindness, her years of tender care and devotion to Jeff. Bruce wasted no time; he filed for divorce immediately, standing before the judge in tears, declaring that his wife had been in a long-term extramarital affair. Unlike what I had experienced, no one told him to endure; no one dismissed it as just a few letters. Instead, everyone condemned Khloe, calling her shameless, immoral, a disgrace.

Their divorce was finalized in record time. At the same time, Khloe was fired from her teaching job, accused of accepting bribes from students' parents. Whether she actually did or not, only Bruce would know. I didn't bother following their lives after that; I was too busy building my own. I found a job as a merchandise coordinator at an apparel export company. I had to learn French, master international trade, and juggle raising Luna. There was no time for petty gossip about people I had long since left behind. Five years later, I was promoted, becoming the head of

European sales operations. And Jeff? He never moved up. He remained stuck in the same stagnant position at City Hall. With no career prospects left to worry about, no reputation left to protect, he finally married Khloe. He even took out a loan to throw her a lavish wedding. But the person who suffered the most from their union was Logan. Anytime Logan and Khloe had a conflict, Jeff always sided with Khloe. I will never forget that night, Christmas Eve, years ago. Logan arrived at my doorstep, his clothes tattered, his backpack filthy, his little hands frozen. The moment

he saw me, he threw himself into my arms, sobbing, "Mom, I never want to go back to that house again. I hate them!" Through his gasping tears, I finally got the story. With Christmas approaching, Khloe had made roast beef ribs for dinner. Logan, unable to resist the aroma, had snuck a piece. Khloe caught him, and she slapped him. When Jeff came home and heard what happened, he didn't reprimand Khloe at all. Instead, he scolded Logan, telling him it was wrong to steal food. Khloe, emboldened, had smugly ordered him to stand outside in the cold to

reflect. It was freezing outside. Logan, humiliated and furious, had run to his room, grabbed his backpack, and run straight to me. "Mom, can I stay with you? Can I never go back?" Looking at his pale, chapped lips, his tear-stained face, I pulled him into my arms and held him tight. From that moment on, he... "Refused to return to his father's house, Khloe, of course, was thrilled. I don't know what she told Jeff, but the man who once fought tooth and nail to keep his son suddenly stopped resisting; instead, he sent over all of Logan's belongings,

as if discarding an unwanted item. For the first two years, Jeff still sent child support checks. Then one day, they stopped coming, and that was it. I raised both my children alone. I taught them right from wrong. I put them through school; I saved money to buy them cars, even homes. No, they betrayed me just like their father did. It felt as though I had cried my last tear that night outside the window. The darkness slowly swallowed the final traces of daylight. I forced myself to stand, my legs shaky, as I made my way to

the bedroom. Lying in bed, I felt like a fish gasping for air, desperately searching for oxygen. Then the sound of keys turning in the lock echoed through the quiet house. Luna's voice followed: 'Mom, we're back!' I didn't move; I didn't answer. Logan's confused voice came next: 'Mom's not home. Didn't she tell us to come for dinner this morning? Why hasn't she even cooked?' Luna let out a sigh. 'Who knows? She's been getting more and more annoying these past two years. So sentimental all the time. Every time I'm around her, I feel suffocated. It's so much

easier being with Chloe.' 'Keep your voice down! If Mom hears you, she'll be upset.' 'So what if she is? Are we really supposed to never see Dad again just to make her happy? He's still our father.' Their conversation continued in hushed tones. Then my bedroom door creaked open, a small warm body barreling toward me. 'Vivien! Grandma! Are you playing hide and seek with us? I found you!' The voices in the living room fell into a sudden silence. Seconds later, both Logan and Luna rushed in. The light flicked on. Logan froze in place; he stood there,

rooted to the floor, staring at me, his mother, lying in bed, face streaked with dried tears. His lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper. 'Mom.' Luna hesitated in the doorway, her expression unreadable. The room was heavy with silence. After a long moment, she cautiously stepped forward, reaching for my hand. 'Mom, I'm sorry,' she murmured. 'We were so busy yesterday, that's why we couldn't come. Are you mad at us?' I stared at her, unblinking, saying nothing. She shrank under my gaze, her voice growing smaller. 'Mom, I had to work overtime. It wasn't my choice. You

know this is an important time for my career.' 'And Logan chimed in quickly, 'Yeah, Mom, we really did have to work. But we're here now, aren't we? We came to celebrate with you today. Come on, get up and have some cake!' I looked at them, really looked at them, and all I could see was Jeff. The way they lied so effortlessly, the way they twisted their words, trying to placate me just as he had once done. Had I been fighting against something impossible all along? Had all my efforts—the love, the sacrifices, the endless nights of

working myself to the bone for them—meant nothing against the weight of their bloodline? 'Grandma, I want cake!' Vivien tugged at me with her tiny hands, her impatience nearly pulling me off the bed. Logan quickly slipped my slippers onto the floor and helped me sit up, his voice filled with forced warmth. 'Mom, Vivien's been so excited all day about celebrating your birthday. He kept saying how much she missed you the moment her dance class ended. I brought her straight here.' They half-led, half-dragged me to the dining table. On it sat a six-inch cartoon cake, the design

from *Frozen,* Vivien's favorite. I smiled, not because I was happy, but because I realized what a fool I had been for over thirty years. A memory surfaced unbidden: that night so many years ago after my fight with Jeff, the empty can of formula on the kitchen counter, the twins' desperate gasping cries. I had fought through the pain in my bruised back, cooking oatmeal with one arm while rocking them with the other. One would finally fall asleep only to be woken up by the other's cries. I had hated Jeff so much that night. I had wanted

to walk away, but when I looked at my children, I couldn't. So I stayed. I stayed and I fought for them. For years, I worked endlessly to provide for them. I learned French, International Trade—everything I needed to climb the corporate ladder to earn just a thousand extra dollars a month. I had fought tooth and nail against Sammy for that manager promotion. No! Now they had gone to that woman's birthday party. Now they had gifted her gold bracelets, expensive liquor, an entire jewelry set. Me? At sixty-six, the only birthday cake I got was whatever my five-year-old

granddaughter happened to bring. Suppressing the anguish rising in my chest, I pulled out a chair and sat down. Then, in a calm, even voice, I said, 'Sit down; I have something to say.' Logan and Luna exchanged a glance before hesitantly sitting across from me. Vivien, thinking we were about to start eating, stared at the Elsa figurine on the cake, her eyes bright with anticipation. I looked directly at my children and got straight to the point. 'You didn't come yesterday because you were at their anniversary party, weren't you?' Their faces instantly changed. Luna's brows furrowed. 'Mom,

what are you trying to say?' she asked cautiously. I kept my voice steady. 'If you wanted to attend their celebration, you could have just told me. There was no need to lie about working late and make me wait until midnight.' Luna stiffened, her complexion paling." Logan lowered his head in guilt. Minutes passed in heavy silence. Then Luna began to cry; she moved from across the table to sit beside me, gripping my hand tightly. "Mom, let the past go," she pleaded through her tears. "You have to stop holding on to this. Dad has connections, resources; he

can help me and Logan. Why should we struggle when we could ask him for help?" "Mom, we've had it hard too. Can't you try to understand us?" Her tears fell onto my hand, burning my skin like fire. "I'm getting married next year," she continued. "Lucifer and I are planning our future, and Dad promised to pull some strings to get him a job at City Hall." She looked at me then, and her next words pierced straight through me: "If I can't rely on Dad, am I supposed to rely on you?" I stared at her, feeling as

if I were seeing her for the first time. Logan had settled down young, marrying right after college. Luna, on the other hand, had gone to grad school, then thrown herself into work, always pushing herself harder and further. The more educated she became, the more successful she was; the colder she became. The more she weighed pros and cons before making every choice. She shifted uncomfortably under my gaze, avoiding my eyes. Instead, she stared at the Elsa cake and murmured, "Mom, I've been holding this in for a long time. If you hadn't caused that scene at City

Hall, Dad never would have divorced you. Logan and I wouldn't have had to struggle the way we did. Dad wouldn't have ended up a low-ranking government worker until the day he retired. If you had just endured, things would have been different for all of us." "Luna, stop!" Logan snapped. She flinched, then let out a bitter chuckle. "Am I wrong?" she shot back. "If Mom hadn't insisted on leaving Dad, Khloe never would have had a chance to replace her. But Mom made her choice back then, so why is she still holding on to the resentment?" She

clenched her fists. "Besides, Khloe and Dad only got together years after your divorce. Of course, she wasn't a homewrecker." Her face was flushed, her voice rising in fervent defense. "Then she turned back to me. Mom, let it go! Stop drowning in your own bitterness. You can't pass your hatred on to me and Logan. No matter what you say, Dad is still our father." I stared at her. This was not my daughter, not the daughter I had raised, not the child I had sacrificed everything for. My fingers trembled as I pointed to the door. "Get out,

both of you! I don't have children like you." A long, suffocating silence followed. Then slowly, Luna stood up. Her voice was eerily calm. "F Mom, we should all take some time to cool off. I won't be coming back for a while." She grabbed the cake from the table and called out to Vivien, "Vivien, let’s go have the cake at Auntie's place." Vivien hesitated, glancing at me before slowly sliding off her chair and reaching for Luna's hand. Hand in hand, they walked toward the door. Logan lingered outside. Luna's impatient voice rang out, "Logan, hurry up! What

are you waiting for?" He picked up his coat and looked at me. "Mom, just calm down. I'll go talk to Luna." Then he too left. As the door began to close, I heard Vivien's small voice: "Does Grandma not want us anymore?" Luna's reply was sharp and deliberate. "That's right; you don't have a grandma anymore." Vivien cheered, "Yay! That means Chloe is my real grandma now! Tomorrow I'll ask Grandpa and Grandma Chloe to come to my school's sports day." The voices faded as the door shut. I stood there staring at the closed door for a long,

long time. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. No matter how hard I tried to erase them from my mind, the pain in my chest was crushing. But I would get used to it; I had survived worse, hadn't I? Slowly, I steadied myself, pushing off my knees to stand. I walked to the drawer, pulled out the two real estate contracts I had prepared for them, and tore them to shreds. If they had their father now, if they had a new mother, then I had no more reason to care. From this moment on, I no

longer have a son or daughter. On Monday morning, I went to a law firm and hired an attorney to draft my will. Upon my death, all my assets would be donated to charity. I also put Logan and his wife's house, still under my name, up for sale. Since they weren't home, I used my spare key to let the real estate agent in to take photos of the property. As I stepped out of the agency, my phone rang. It was the realtor I had spoken to about the luxury villa. "Miss Isabelle, when would you be available

to sign the contract? If you complete the purchase this month, we're offering two years of free property management services." I politely declined. "I won't be moving forward with the purchase." The salesperson pressed for a reason, but I barely heard them; my mind had already drifted to several years ago, back when Logan got married. At the time, I sold my old home, the one I had bought decades ago for $60,000. Thanks to the good school district, I managed to sell it for $250,000. I had planned to use the money as a down payment on a house

for Logan and his wife, but they weren't satisfied with that. They had their eyes on my bank account too. They even wanted me to take out the mortgage in my name. To entice me, they offered to add my name to the deed and make... Me, the primary mortgage holder, I refused. I said I gave them two choices: one, did I pay the down payment but they handle the mortgage themselves, the deed would be in their names; two, did I take out the mortgage in my name but the house remains solely under my ownership. They could

live in it, and I would rent elsewhere. When I passed, the property would be split equally between Logan and Luna. They debated for days before ultimately choosing the second option, and Luna, he was never shortchanged either. She attended a private university where tuition alone cost $155,000 per year. After graduating, she took a 2-year gap before grad school, during which I fully supported her. Between living expenses, travel, and personal costs, I must have spent at least $100,000 on her. Even now, the apartment she rents, I pay the rent every quarter. They drained me dry, and back

then, I was foolish enough to think it was worth it. I believed that after I retired, I'd have $5,000 a month in pension, which would continue to increase. I had long-term care insurance and a fixed annuity plan that would pay out principal and interest when I turned 70, ensuring I had a secure future, so I never denied them anything, not once. Now, looking back, what a fool I had been. A lifetime spent working, sacrificing, and giving only to be betrayed by the very people I had dedicated my life to. I terminated my lease on my

rental apartment; then, I bought myself a move-in ready villa, a cozy house with a private garden. I hired a housekeeper to take care of looking in chores. For the first time in my life, I lived for myself. But peace never lasts long. My phone was soon bombarded with calls from Logan. I blocked his number. Moments later, my phone rang again, this time from Michelle, his wife. I hesitated, then answered; there were still a few things left to say. The second the call connected, Logan's furious voice exploded through the speaker. "Mom, what the hell are you

doing? How could you send a lawyer and a realtor to our house? Are you seriously selling our home? Have you lost your mind?" His entitled outrage made my stomach turn. He wasn't asking; he was demanding. He was acting as if I owed him something. "Luna always said you were difficult," he sneered. "I used to defend you, but now I see she was right. Just because we missed your birthday, you're making such a big deal out of nothing. No wonder Dad left you; if I were him, I'd choose Aunt Chloe too." Even though I had already

given up on them, his words still sent a fresh wave of fury through me. I let out a cold laugh. "Perfect. Since you've chosen Aunt Chloe, let her buy you a house. That home is legally mine, and I'm selling it, so pack up and move out; otherwise, my lawyer will be filing charges for illegal occupancy." I paused, then added, "Oh, and do pass a message to Luna: her landlord has been asking about her next rent payment. I won't be covering it anymore." Before he could spit out another protest, I hung up, then I blocked all

their numbers. I shut my phone off, and for the first time in my life, I let silence be my companion. That weekend, I went to a pet rescue center and adopted two cats. I filled my garden with flowers, vines, and shrubs. One afternoon, I sat on my balcony, a cat curled in my lap, soaking in the warm sunlight, then a knock at the door. My housekeeper came upstairs. "Ma'am, there are two police officers here to see you." Confused, I went downstairs. Turned out Logan and Luna had been unable to contact me for months and had

reported me missing. Right in front of me, the officers called Logan to inform him that I was safe. An hour later, they arrived at my doorstep—not just Logan, not just Luna, but someone I never expected to see—my older brother, Jack. After the police left, the three of them stood in my garden, taking in the house with wide eyes. Luna was the first to break the silence. "Mom, how much do you make as a housekeeper here?" I rolled my eyes and ignored her. It had been months since I last saw them. Logan looked unkempt, his face

shadowed with stubble, his clothes wrinkled and disheveled. Luna didn't look much better—tired, tense, and visibly stressed. I sighed. "What do you want? You're not welcome here. Leave." Logan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Mom, it's been long enough. Don't you think it's time to drop this? The lawyer actually sued me over the house, and now Michelle is threatening divorce. Just tell him to drop it." A month ago, my lawyer had informed me that Logan was refusing to leave, so I had filed a lawsuit against him. I met his gaze without hesitation. "If you

move out within three days, I'll withdraw the lawsuit." Logan looked stunned, as if he couldn't believe I was being this ruthless. Before he could respond, Luna stepped forward. She stretched out a hand expectantly. "Mom, about the $100,000 wedding gift you promised me, can you give it to me now? Lucifer and I just secured our new home, and we need the money for renovations." I let out a laugh, shaking my head. She had money for gold jewelry for another woman, yet she still had her hand out for my money. I reminded her coldly, "Your mother is

Chloe. If you need help buying a home or planning a wedding, go ask her. After all, she's the one you two chose to honor, not me. I won't be giving you a single cent." Luna's face turned red. with rage, her voice went sharp, cruel. "You think we actually want to come to you? We were giving you a chance to make amends, but clearly you'd rather be stubborn. Fine, but don't come crawling back when you're old and alone. Don't expect us to take care of you," she scoffed. "You know what? Khloe is a better mother than

you ever were. She's prettier, kinder, more loving. When I get married, Dad and Khloe will be sitting in the parents' seats. As for you, come or don't; I don't care." Then, without waiting for my response, she stormed out. Her words should have hurt, but they didn't—not anymore. I watched her leave with indifference, brushing off imaginary dust from my sleeve. As I turned to head back inside, I noticed two figures still standing in my yard: Logan, still frozen in place, lost in thought, who had been watching the whole spectacle with amusement, clearly enjoying the show. I

had almost forgotten about him. I had long known that Jack's life hadn't been easy these past years. My parents spoiled him rotten. Originally, my father had pulled strings to get him a well-paying government job, but Jack was lazy, incompetent, and frequently skipped work. It wasn't long before he was fired. After that, my parents funded several small businesses for him; some ventures made money, others failed, but he got by. Then he hit the jackpot, opening a wholesale food business that took off. But just as he started making real money, he found himself a mistress, and she

scammed him for everything he had. His wife divorced him, walking away with half of what little he had left. Now, here he was, standing in my garden. When he saw me looking at him, he flashed a grinning, greasy smile. "Isabelle, Mom and Dad miss you. They want you to come home and visit." I narrowed my eyes; something was off. Jack had never cared about family bonds, so why was he suddenly playing messenger? He took a step forward, his voice laced with fake warmth. "Dad doesn't hold a grudge against you anymore, you know. He's just stubborn.

Divorce isn't even a big deal these days. Look around; everyone's doing it." I nearly laughed out loud. Now that he himself was divorced, he had conveniently forgotten how he once ridiculed me for leaving Jeff. I cut straight to the chase: "What do you really want, Jack? If there's nothing else, get out." Jack hesitated, then sighed, rubbing his hands together in that familiar sleazy way. "All right, I won't beat around the bush. Dad took a fall while out for a walk. The doctors say he might end up bedridden. Mom thinks you should come back and take

care of him. You always complained that they favored me, right? Well, now's your chance to spend some quality time with them." I almost laughed from sheer disbelief. "If I remember correctly, their combined retirement pensions are nearly 10 grand a month. You're telling me they can't afford a caregiver?" Jack's face twisted in frustration. "If we hire a nurse, then how am I supposed to survive? I'm 68 years old, Isabelle! You expect me to go out and work?" But there was a catch. Even with my father immobilized, even with my mother aging and frail, the money still

had to go to their precious golden son, Jack. Where was this concern when Jeff was tearing my life apart? Where were they when I was left with nothing, struggling to survive? Now, suddenly, they remembered they had a daughter. I shrugged. "Their situation has nothing to do with me. I won't be coming back. Now please leave." Jack's face darkened. "Isabelle, I already consulted a lawyer. Even if you've been estranged from them for years, you are still legally obligated to support them." I smiled indifferently. "Then sue me. If a judge orders me to pay, I'll comply. But

until then, not a single penny." I called security and had them escort him out. As expected, Jack never took legal action; he had always been too lazy to go through that kind of effort. Instead, he dumped our parents into a rundown nursing home, his only instruction to the staff: "Just make sure they don't die." After all, he still needed their pension checks to survive. Two months later, I received a call from an unknown number. When I answered, the voice on the other end was faint, slurred. "Bell." I froze; it had been years since I last

heard that nickname. I held the phone without speaking. "Your father... I don't have much time left, but there's something I need to get off my chest before I go. I... I wanted to tell you I'm sorry." His breathing was labored, his words coming in painful gasps. He said a lot, not more than I had ever heard him say in my entire life. I didn't listen to a single word of it. My father had always been a domineering, chauvinistic man. To him, a woman's only purpose was to depend on a man. He forbade me from divorcing

because he didn't want me to be the one stain on his otherwise successful life. And when I did divorce, he was the first to crush me under his heel. Now, on his deathbed, he wanted to apologize. His words felt like a wet, frozen coat draped over my shoulders, offered not to comfort me, but to remind me of the cold I had already endured alone. I didn't need it. Before I hung up, my mother murmured the address of their nursing home. I hesitated for a long time, but in the end, I went. When I entered his

room, I found him lying there, gaunt and hollow, his cheeks sunken like a dried-up corpse. I hadn't seen him in over ten years; the last time had been on his 70th birthday. I had brought gifts, but... Like always, he had thrown them out the door. I never went back after that. Now, as I stood by his bed, his lips quivered, his breathing growing shallower. Neither of us spoke. Ten minutes later, he closed his eyes; two murky tears slid down his withered face. I turned and walked out. As I stepped into the hall, my mother shuffled

after me, her frail hands trembling. I turned to look at her, now 85, bent with age. I felt nothing. She had spent her entire life in submission; no matter what my father did, she never objected. Not even when he cast me out like garbage. Was she weak, or did she simply not love me enough? I wondered if my father had ever threatened to cut ties with Jack; would she have obeyed just as blindly? I reached into my bag and pulled out a check for $10,000, pressing it into her hand for his funeral. I won't be

attending. Then, I turned and walked away. Behind me, her soft, broken sobs trailed into the empty corridor. I opened a large café bookstore, over 3,000 square feet of space. I was only 66; I couldn't just sit around eating and drinking, waiting for time to run out. During renovations, I specifically had power outlets installed at every seat; shelves overflowed with books, and the air was thick with the rich scent of coffee. I hired students working part-time and people with disabilities who needed jobs. People came not just for coffee but to work, study, and read. It wasn't

a highly profitable business, but it didn't lose money either. One day, while managing the counter, I saw Michelle walk in, hand in hand with a man I didn't recognize. They looked intimate. The moment she saw me, her expression froze. She immediately let go of the man's hand, then, after a brief hesitation, she let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Logan and I are in the middle of a divorce,” she admitted. “He's been involved with a woman Khloe introduced him to for a long time. I only started seeing my boyfriend after that.” I nodded; I had nothing to

say. Logan and Luna's lives no longer concerned me; whatever happened to them, I wouldn't interfere. Michelle sighed, then turned to her boyfriend. “Let’s go somewhere else.” As they walked away, I let out a quiet sigh. I could only hope that Logan wouldn't regret his choices. When Luna got married, she didn't invite me. A friend sent me a video from the wedding, along with a message: “Why is Chloe sitting in the mother's seat at Luna's wedding?” I replied simply, “I suppose I don't deserve to be there.” My friend hesitated for a long time, their typing indicator

flickering on and off. In the end, they just sent a sad emoji. I won't lie; watching that video stung, but more than sadness, I felt relief. At that moment, something inside me fully let go. Unexpectedly, my café bookstore became a local sensation. People flocked to it, eager to experience the cozy atmosphere. Concerned that business wasn't thriving, my young employees brainstormed ideas to attract more customers. They came up with monthly themed drinks: January’s Golden Fortune Latte, February’s Sweetheart Mocha, March’s Coffee and Tea Fusion. Paired with the literary ambiance, the themes worked wonders. Local travel bloggers and

social media influencers began recommending the café. Soon, the café was bustling every day. I noticed my employees were exhausted from the workload, so I raised their salaries and hired more staff. Luna found out who owned the café after seeing a news interview about me. By the time she came looking for me, she was heavily pregnant. At the counter, she ordered an iced Americano. I had the barista pour her a glass of warm water instead. She didn't protest. We sat across from each other; she smiled faintly, but then tears welled up in her eyes. “Mom, I

think I made a mistake.” I took a sip of my coffee. The familiar bitterness spread across my tongue. Luna looked off; her eyes were swollen, her complexion pale, and a large bruise covered her forehead. Her lips trembled, and then she broke down sobbing. “Mom, Lucifer cheated on me.” I stiffened. Lucifer had always seemed like a mild, good-natured guy; I had assumed he was reliable, but Luna's next words shattered that assumption. “I'm four months pregnant, but the woman he's seeing is already about to give birth. He's been busy with work, but really, he's been living with

her this entire time. Last weekend, I drove three hours to see him. When I got there, I caught them together. I pushed the woman, and he hit me.” So Jeff hadn't been able to get Lucifer a government job after all. I asked, “Did you tell your father and Khloe?” Luna's eyes widened in shock. I continued, “Your father has connections; you should ask him to stand up for you.” She stared at me, stunned. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Mom, are you really abandoning me?” I stood up, my voice calm. “You were the ones who abandoned me

first. I chose to let you go. This isn't a recycling center; you don't get to come and go as you please.” Before leaving, I gave her one last piece of advice: “If no one is willing to save you, save yourself. Leave that man as soon as possible. I told you before— a woman can live a good life on her own. You will be fine.” Time passed in the blink of an eye. The number of cats in my care grew, most of them found abandoned at the doorstep of my café. The young people working for me

were a good bunch, at the very least; as their boss, they treated me with warmth and respect. I didn't expect sincerity. True sincerity is rare, something that can't be forced, and that was fine. Had learned long ago that living happily in the present was enough; however, life took its toll on Jeff Smith. One evening, while leaving home to pick up Khloe from the shopping mall, he suffered a stroke. The damage was severe: paralysis on one side, slurred speech, and limited mobility. Khloe, who once seemed to be so devoted, stuck around for a while. She supervised

his treatment and handled the finances, but medical care was expensive. Despite his pension and savings, the costs piled up quickly. Bills for all the treatment, therapy, and medications drained their accounts dry. Jeff became a burden, and Khloe, who had once stolen him from another woman, wasn't the type to sacrifice herself for a sick husband. Before long, she had enough. She packed her bags, emptied what little was left of their joint account, and left him with one final sentence: "I didn't sign up for this." Logan was forced to take him in, but Logan had his own

problems. After his divorce from Michelle, he had jumped into a new relationship, hoping for a fresh start, but his new girlfriend had no interest in a broke, struggling man. When it became clear that he was drowning in debts, she cut her losses and left him. Now stuck with a disabled father, Logan's life unraveled further. His once comfortable lifestyle had shrunk into bare survival; now he could barely afford rent in a tiny apartment. Caring for Jeff was exhausting—feeding him, bathing him, dealing with his endless medical needs. Logan resented every second of it, and before long, he

turned to Luna for help. But Luna had already changed. She had divorced Lucifer the moment her son was born. She knew she didn't want to raise him in a broken marriage like her mother once had. She left the city, moving somewhere new where no one knew her past. Life was hard, balancing work, motherhood, and all the struggles of being a single parent. She finally began to understand the sacrifices her mother had once made. She remembered vividly the long nights when her mother stayed up rocking her and Logan to sleep, the cold winters when she hand-washed

their clothes because they couldn't afford a washing machine, the soft lullabies, the sleepless nights, the relentless work just to give them a better future. She had never appreciated it before, but now she did. At first, she hesitated; then, one night on impulse, she sent her mother a text message: "Mom, how have you been?" No response. Weeks later, she tried again: "I'm sorry for everything." Still silence. She didn't expect forgiveness, but something inside her still hoped. So, every few months, she sent another message: "I understand now everything you did for us. You must have been so

tired. I don't expect you to answer; I just wanted you to know I think about you." No reply ever came from me, but still, she sent them anyway. As for me, I read every single message but never replied. Some wounds, once cut too deep, could never be fully mended. But that didn't mean I wished her misery. If anything, I hoped that one day she would truly stand on her own two feet, that she would find her strength, that she would live for herself—not for a man, not for approval—but because she deserved a good life. Time

passed; my café bookstore thrived. My home was filled with warmth, books, and the soft purring of my cats. The people who once weighed me down—my father, my ex-husband, my children—they no longer controlled my life. There had been pain, betrayal, and loss, but I survived, and now I lived for myself. I had spent a lifetime giving, sacrificing, and enduring; now I chose joy. No more regrets, no more burdens—just the simple pleasure of a good cup of coffee, a peaceful afternoon, and the knowledge that, after everything, I had finally learned how to be free.