Her crying stopped mid-breath.
“It was a gift,” she said. “I never called it a loan—”
“Good. A gift.” I nodded. “A gift belongs to the people you give it to. That means you had no right to open our door at midnight. No right to pull the sheets off our bed. No right to drag my husband out of it. And you just said so in front of everyone. That ledger of yours? It’s void. From today on.”
Diane blinked. “You— I never counted money with you! You’re the one counting! Now you’re going to audit my right to be his mother? I raised him for thirty years! Changed his diapers, wiped his butt—”
“I’m not auditing your right to be his mother,” I said. “I asked you one question. Gift, or loan?”
She kept crying. Kept telling the story. Thirty years of sacrifice. Swallowing her pride. Handing over every penny she’d saved.
