I had always believed my sacrifices were worth it. As long as my family was happy, my exhaustion and suffering were small prices to pay.
I was wrong.
My frugality, my compromises, my endless giving—none of it had earned me gratitude. Instead, my kindness had become a weapon they used against me.
Jonathan didn't give me time to process the betrayal. He shoved his phone in my face, the QR payment code glowing.
"Mom, this ginseng cost two thousand dollars." His tone left no room for argument. "Pay me back. Now."
I stared at the code, then slowly shifted my gaze to my daughter.
"Aria." My voice trembled despite my best efforts. "Do you really think I owe you this money?"
Aria met my gaze. Her expression didn't soften.
"Mom, Jonathan and I work hard for our money," she said. "Just because you're my mother doesn't mean you can bleed us dry. Pay back the two thousand."
Bleed them dry?
Memories of her wedding flooded my mind. Jonathan's family had been poor. Because Aria loved him, I waived the traditional bride price. I gave them fifty thousand dollars of my savings—my entire nest egg—so they could afford the down payment on this very apartment.
I drained my retirement account for their renovations, penny by penny.
I remembered the day they moved in. Aria had hugged me, tears streaming down her face.
"Thank you, Mom," she'd promised. "I'll take care of you forever. I'll make you the happiest mother in the world."
Forever had ended too soon.
No care. No gratitude. Only schemes and accusations.
A small figure suddenly barreled into me.
Lily rushed forward and slammed her little fists into my waist.
"You're bad!" she screamed. "You stole Grandma's stuff! I hate you!"
Pain exploded in my lower back. I gasped, cold sweat beading on my forehead. I stumbled backward, barely catching myself.
Aria didn't move to help. She pulled Lily behind her protectively, glaring at me as if I were the threat.
"Mom, look at what you've done. Even the child can't stand you." Her voice was ice. "Just pay the money."
I looked at the two of them—the daughter I had raised, and the granddaughter I had practically raised again.
I had cleaned their messes. Wiped their tears. When they learned to walk, I hunched over until my spine screamed, guiding their every step. When they babbled their first words, I taught them, patient and tireless. When they refused to eat, I cooked meal after meal until they were full.
And now?
The mother looked at me like a stubborn nuisance. The daughter looked at me like a criminal.
Lily's hostile glare cut deeper than her fists. It triggered a memory—a blizzard three years ago. She had spiked a high fever in the middle of the night, screaming in agony.
The snow had been knee-deep. No cars could move. I wrapped her in my coat and ran three miles to the hospital, my legs turning blue, just to save her life.
Her other grandmother—the one she was defending now—had only shown up the next afternoon. She glanced at Lily, muttered, "Well, she's not dead," and left to play Mahjong.
Yet in Lily's eyes, I was the villain.
The grandmother who sacrificed everything was the thief. The grandmother who did nothing was the victim.
I pressed my hand against my waist. The throbbing pain there matched the ache in my chest perfectly.
