At sixty-three, I had finally learned that being a good mother did not mean being an endless source of money. For seventeen years, I had quietly paid for Nathan and Vanessa’s emergencies, repairs, vacations, and “temporary” loans that somehow never came back. Every time I hesitated, Nathan reminded me that family helped family. Vanessa was less subtle. She called my little house “the old place” and joked that I was lucky to have nothing better to spend my money on.

I swallowed it because Nathan was my son.

Then came the anniversary gift. Nathan asked me to help with a swimming pool, promising they would repay me. I said no. Vanessa laughed and called me selfish. Two days later, Robert, my financial adviser, showed me the numbers I had spent years avoiding. My retirement was in danger. The money I had given them was nearly gone. For the first time, I opened every statement, every receipt, every record—and decided I was done.