Abigail tightened the strap of her bag as her hands began to shake.
For months she had sold jewelry, pawned her mother’s sewing machine, and taken out personal loans to pay for specialists, tests, and medications. The doctors assured her that Spencer could recover, but each relapse seemed to open a new hole in her finances.
That morning, as she checked the winning ticket numbers for the fifth time, she had imagined telling him by his bedside. She had wanted to whisper, “You will not have to worry about anything anymore, my son.”
Now she heard him planning how to spend a fortune whose existence he was still unaware of.
“When I get out of the hospital,” Spencer continued, “I will tell her I need to save my printing shop, and she will definitely pay the rent, buy another printer, and settle my credit cards because she always ends up solving everything for me.”
“What if her good news has nothing to do with you?” the woman on the phone asked.
Spencer laughed again. “Everything ends up having to do with me.”
Abigail felt like she could not breathe, so she leaned against the wall to keep from falling. At sixty, she was discovering that the son for whom she had given up so much did not see her sacrifices as love, but as a bank account without a password.
A nurse approached with a thick folder in her arms.
“Mrs. Riley, are you not coming in?” the nurse asked softly. “Your son has been asking for you for a while.”
Abigail forced her lips into a calm smile. “I left some documents in the car, honey, so I will be right back.”
She walked to the elevator without looking back once. When she reached the parking garage, she got into her old Ford sedan, took out her ticket, and double checked the combination.
There was no mistake. She owned enough money to buy houses, businesses, and amenities for several generations.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
