His words were both a validation and a chilling warning. They confirmed I wasn’t overreacting, but also revealed the seriousness of the situation. “We need to document everything,” he continued. “Every transfer, every gift, every instance of pressure. We will also be changing your will to protect your assets from any future manipulation.”
We spent the next three hours going through my financial records. Mr. Weber let out a low whistle when he saw the final tally. “$33,400 over three years, Mrs. Richter. With that money, you could have lived very comfortably, traveled, truly enjoyed your retirement. Instead, you completely financed the lives of two adults who didn’t even respect you enough to invite you to their wedding.”
When I left Mr. Weber’s office, I had a clear, multi-step plan. First, change all the locks on my house. Second, install a comprehensive security system. Third, open a new bank account at a different institution where they had no contacts. And fourth, I would begin, without delay, to live the life I had postponed for years.
My next stop was the hardware store. The owner, Mr. Sommer, had known me for years, always seeing me come in for supplies to fix one thing or another at Max and Lena’s apartment. “Mrs. Richter!” he greeted me. “What can I help you with today? Another emergency for your son?”
“No, Mr. Sommer,” I said, a new strength in my voice. “This time, it’s for me. I need to change all the locks on my house, and I want the best quality you have.”
He looked momentarily surprised but asked no further questions. As I was selecting the deadbolts, his son, Ethan, who happened to install security systems for a living, came into the store. It felt like providence. “Ethan,” I said, “I need you to install a full surveillance system at my home. The works. Price is not an issue.”
While they were preparing the materials for an installation the next day, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. I answered, and it was Lena, calling from a borrowed phone. “Renate, it’s me. Please, don’t hang up. We need to talk about this like civilized adults.”
“Go ahead,” I said, my voice flat and uninterested.
“Listen,” she began, her tone dripping with conciliation, “I understand you’re upset about the wedding. It was a mistake. A big one. Max and I have talked, and we want to make it up to you. How about we have a special dinner, just the three of us, to celebrate? We can do it at your house. We can cook together, like we used to.”
The manipulation was so transparent it was almost laughable. “Lena,” I interrupted her, “how much rent do you owe, exactly?”
The silence on the other end was telling. “Um, well… it’s two months now. So, a thousand dollars. But that’s not why I’m calling, Renate! We genuinely miss having you in our lives.”
“Do you miss me,” I asked, my voice sharp as a blade, “or do you miss my money?”
“Both!” she blurted out, a shocking moment of ugly honesty. “Renate, I won’t lie to you. Yes, we need your financial help, but we love you, too! You are important to us.”
“If I’m so important,” I said, “why wasn’t I important enough to be at your wedding? When was the last time you called me just to ask how I was doing, without asking for a single thing?”
The silence that followed was her answer. It had always been never.
“Lena, I am only going to explain this to you once,” I said, my voice cold and final. “For three years, you have treated me like an ATM with feelings. You used me, you ignored me, you humiliated me, and you finally insulted me in the worst way possible. Now that the money has stopped, you have suddenly rediscovered your affection for me. Well, there is no ‘please’ anymore. You made your choice when you decided I wasn’t ‘special’ enough for your wedding. Now I am making mine.”
I ended the call and turned my phone off completely. I didn’t want any more interruptions on my first day of true freedom. That afternoon, I went to the beauty salon I hadn’t set foot in for over a year. I was always canceling my appointments because Max or Lena had some “emergency,” or because the money I’d set aside for myself was needed for one of their crises.
“Mrs. Richter!” my stylist, Cynthia, exclaimed. “What a wonderful surprise! I thought you’d forgotten all about us.”
“I didn’t forget you, Cynthia,” I said, settling into the chair. “I just forgot that I deserve to be pampered, too.”
I indulged in the full treatment: a cut and color, a manicure, a pedicure. For the first time in years, I spent money on myself without a single twinge of guilt. As Cynthia worked, she chatted about her life, her children, her dreams. It was so refreshing to have a normal conversation that didn’t revolve around the latest drama with Max and Lena.
When she was finished, she spun me around to face the mirror. “You look beautiful, Mrs. Richter,” she said. “But more than that, you look… free. Did something good happen?”
“Yes, Cynthia,” I said, smiling at my reflection. “I finally learned how to say no.”…
