My phone rang immediately. It was Javier, my friend from the factory.
“Stephanie, I just saw Ethan’s video. Everyone is talking about it. Are you okay?”
His voice reflected shock and compassion.
“I’m fine, Javier. Better than I’ve been in years.”
“That boy looks destroyed,” Javier continued. “But what he did at that wedding was unforgivable. Are you really moving to Europe?”
I looked around my apartment at the packed boxes, the plane tickets already purchased.
“Yes, Javier, it’s time for me to live for myself.”
Over the next few hours, I received calls from people I hadn’t heard from in years: former co-workers, neighbors, even some distant cousins who had seen the video. They all expressed their support and their outrage at the treatment I had received.
“We always knew you were too good for him,” my old supervisor from the factory told me.
Ashley showed up at my apartment that same afternoon, unannounced. Her face was swollen from crying.
“Stephanie, please open the door. I know you’re in there.”
Her voice was desperate. I finally opened it, more out of curiosity than compassion.
“Ethan hasn’t stopped crying since he posted the video,” Ashley said, walking in uninvited. “He’s getting hundreds of hate messages. His co-workers are looking at him differently. Some clients have canceled meetings with him.”
Her description filled me with a satisfaction I didn’t expect.
“And I’m supposed to care about that?” I asked coldly.
Ashley collapsed onto my sofa.
“Stephanie, he did what you asked. He made the public video. He completely humiliated himself. Isn’t that enough?”
Her question revealed how little she understood the situation.
“Ashley,” I explained patiently, “the video doesn’t erase 45 years of ingratitude. It doesn’t undo the humiliation of the wedding. It doesn’t repair the emotional damage you both caused me for years.”
She looked at me as if I were being unreasonable.
“But he publicly apologized. He admitted his mistakes.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “After he found out about my money. After he knew he was going to lose a multi-million-dollar inheritance. Do you think he would have made that video if I were actually poor?”
The question left her speechless because we both knew the truth.
Ashley tried a different tactic.
“Stephanie, I made mistakes, too. I was young, immature. I let my mom influence my opinions about you. But now I understand. You are an extraordinary woman, strong, independent.”
“Ashley,” I interrupted, “three weeks ago, you told me I didn’t need much money. You sat me at the back table at the wedding I paid for. You allowed Ethan to publicly humiliate me. At what point during those years did you show me any respect?”
She couldn’t answer.
“Besides,” I continued, “where is your husband now? Why didn’t he come to apologize himself?”
Ashley looked down.
“He’s ashamed. He says he can’t face you after what he did.”
Her answer confirmed what I suspected. Ethan was still a coward.
“Stephanie,” Ashley pleaded, “give us a chance. We can be a real family. Ethan has learned his lesson. I have, too. Even my mom says she was wrong about you.”
The mention of Carol made me laugh.
“Oh, so now Carol admits she was wrong. How convenient.”
Ashley stood up desperately.
“What can we do? What do you need to forgive us?”
Her question revealed she still didn’t get it. She still thought this was a negotiation, that there was a price for my forgiveness.
“Ashley,” I said, walking her to the door, “some things don’t have a price. Some wounds don’t heal. Some relationships can’t be repaired.”
“But family love—” she started to say.
“Family love,” I interrupted, “is built on mutual respect, not desperate pleas when an inheritance is discovered.”
I opened the door.
“Ethan had 45 years to show genuine family love. He chose contempt. Now he must live with that choice.”
Ashley left in tears. From my window, I saw her get into a taxi, talking frantically on the phone, probably reporting back to Ethan that their latest strategy had failed. The viral video, the public pleas, the promises of change—nothing was working.
That night, as I had dinner alone on my terrace, I received a message from Ethan. It was a picture of him in what looked like a doctor’s office.
“Mom, I’m in therapy. I’m going to work on being a better person. I love you.”
I deleted the message without replying. His therapy came too late. His changes were reactive, not proactive. Everything he was doing now was out of fear of losing money, not out of genuine love for me. The difference was crucial, and Ethan had already shown his true priorities.
My flight to Barcelona was scheduled for five days later. As I looked out at the city lights, I felt completely at peace with my decision. Ethan had chosen to replace me as a mother. Now, I was choosing to replace him as a son.
The last few days before my departure passed in a blur of preparations and constant drama. Ethan’s video had reached over a million views. The comments continued to pour in by the thousands, most of them supporting me and condemning my son’s ingratitude. Some local media outlets had even contacted Mr. Miller, asking for interviews with me.
“You’ve become a symbol for mothers mistreated by ungrateful children,” Mr. Miller informed me during our last meeting. “Women are sharing their own similar stories on social media. Your case has struck a very sensitive nerve in society.”
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