In my past life, I gave everything to Peter. Raised him like my own. Gave up my career. Burned through my entire inheritance to buy him a full-floor apartment and fund his marriage.
And in the end? I died freezing in a rotting shack, licking dirty water off the floor just to stay alive.
Meanwhile, Peter was warm and comfortable in the home I bought—taking care of his real mother. My husband’s true love.
I closed my eyes that day, refusing to accept it.
So cold. So thirsty.
***
Peter was getting married.
And a wedding meant big expenses—residence, car, a permanent move to the city.
Housing prices were insane, but Peter had never settled for less. His fiancée, Lily, was just as demanding. They wanted a huge high-rise downtown, and they wanted it paid in full. No mortgage. No compromises. The price? Eight figures.
When Peter finally came to me, eyes pleading, I hesitated. In all these years, it was the first time he had ever begged.
“Mom, how am I supposed to face Lily if I take out a mortgage? Why take a loan when we can pay in full? We have the money. I’m your only son—are you really gonna let me look like a fool?”
He was obsessed with appearances.
I didn’t correct him—the money wasn’t ours, it was mine. My parents made sure of that in their will, cutting Stuart out completely.
Stuart hated it. Thought it meant they never trusted him. He froze me out for months over it. Things only got better after we adopted Peter.
Maybe that’s why he never spent a dime on us. Kept his salary a mystery. Snapped if I even asked.
So I paid for everything—Peter’s tuition, his hobbies, our daily expenses.
But I never minded—because I thought we were a family.
