I sent the $15,000 before lunch. That evening, after putting Ethan to bed, I opened my banking account and stared at the recurring transfer labeled Patricia Mercer: $8,000 — Monthly. What had started as temporary help had continued for eight years. The payments alone amounted to $96,000 every year, not counting vacations, gifts, repairs, and other emergencies.

As I stared at the screen, I remembered Daniel standing beside our dishwasher years earlier. My mother had called asking for money again, and he had quietly told me, “You know you don’t have to fix every broken thing in the world, right?” I had dismissed him because she was my mother. Now his words returned with uncomfortable clarity.