We left
In the car, Sarah broke down. “I’m sorry, David. I ruined Jessica’s celebration.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said firmly. “You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”
At home, I made her tea. By 10 p.m., she was asleep, exhausted. I, however, sat in my office making decisions. My mother and Jessica had forgotten that comfort doesn’t fall from the sky—every bill, every luxury, every ease came from me. If they thought they could humiliate my wife while still living off my support, they were gravely mistaken.
By Monday, I cut off the automatic transfers to my mother, disconnected my card from her utilities, and told the bank I’d no longer cover the mortgage—on the house in my name. I put it up for sale. For Jessica, I froze her joint account, canceled her car insurance, and closed the credit card under my name.
I owned the diner where my mother once worked, as well as Jessica and Mark’s rental home. I decided to sell the diner and raise their rent to market value.
