My mother had a clear favorite her entire life, while I was raised by my grandparents mostly. When she got old and sick, I helped financially but refused to do more than that for a crucial reason.
While most good parents would tell you that they don’t have a favorite, my mother was not ashamed to tell me that my brother, Stanley, was her golden boy. My father walked out of our family because caring for two children became too much.
In the end, my mother blamed me for it. “He wouldn’t have left if I hadn’t gotten pregnant with you,” she told me one day. I was just a child at the time and only wanted my mother’s love.
“But that’s not my fault,” I replied. “I didn’t ask to be born.”
“Don’t talk back to me! I’m the parent, and you’re the kid, so shut up,” she finished. We would have similar conversations through the years whenever she was mad at me. Finally, my mother sent me to live with my paternal grandparents.
They felt so bad that our father had walked away from our lives that they took me in and gave me all the love I never received at home. That’s how I learned that the word family has lots of meanings.
All I heard about my mother and brother over the years was that she helped him with everything. He got into some trouble with the police, and my mother paid all his legal fees. Eventually, she had to sell her house and pay for his apartment.
Stanley was spoiled and couldn’t hold down a job, but my mother coddled him. Meanwhile, my grandparents didn’t have much money, but they gave me everything they could. I had to work to afford my college and my home.
I learned a whole ton of responsibility, and when I graduated, I got a pretty decent job. That’s where I met my husband, Lawrence. We had two daughters whom I cherished equally. When my grandparents got sick, I was there for them until the very end.
They gave me their house, and one of my daughters moved there when she got married. Unfortunately, my husband died shortly after her wedding. She asked me to live with her, but I wanted to stay in our home.
I didn’t hear from my brother or my mother for many years. They didn’t care about me at all, so why should I care about them? But one day, Stanley called. “Hello?” I answered the phone.
“Hey, Brooke. It’s Stanley. How are you?” my brother said through the other line.
“Oh, hey, Stanley. Long time, no speak. I’m fine. How about you?” I replied.
“Yeah, it’s been a while. Listen, I’m calling because Mom broke her hip. I need your help,” Stanley continued.
“Oh, that’s too bad. Is she ok?” I asked.
“She’s fine. It’s just that the hospital bill will be pretty expensive, and I need help paying for it. She’s our mother after all,” he explained.
“Oh, well. Ok. Give me the details, and I’ll send some money,” I told him. My husband and I had accumulated decent savings, so I could afford to send Stanley some money for whatever our mother needed.
“That’s great, Brooke. Thank you. I’ll talk to you later,” Stanley said and hung up. I didn’t feel any obligation to my mother, but I wasn’t heartless. I sent him the money and forgot about it until a week later when my brother called again.
“Hey, Brooke!” Stanley started.
“Hey. How did everything go?” I asked.
“The operation for her hip went well, but the doctor just told me she’s going to need tons of rehab and round-the-clock care. I was wondering when you could come to pick her up?” my brother asked.
“What do you mean pick her up?” I probed, confused.
“I told you. She needs someone to take care of her. I’ve been by her side our whole lives. It’s time you take responsibility, Brooke. I can’t watch her,” Stanley added.
“Excuse me? Responsibility? Mom sent me to live with our grandparents because she hated me, and you were her golden boy. She essentially abandoned me,” I snapped.
“Please. Stop the melodrama. You need to step up because she needs you. She gave you life. You owe her,” Stanley demanded.
“No. I don’t owe her anything. I needed my mother when I was growing up, and she refused. She gave all her love to you, so you will need to figure out something. I gave you money for her hospital bills out of the goodness of my heart, but I won’t be her caretaker,” I told him.
“YOU’RE HORRIBLE, BROOKE! HOW CAN YOU DO THIS? I CAN’T WATCH HER!” Stanley started screaming through the phone.
“Honestly, I don’t care, Stanley. You don’t get to call me horrible. I was a kid when she abandoned me, and my grandparents became my REAL PARENTS. Don’t call me again!” I finished and hung up the call.
Stanley tried calling, texting, e-mailing, and more for several days, but I blocked him. He also tried contacting my daughters, but they refused to listen to him. They knew my history with that side of the family.
Of course, Stanley and my mother bad-mouthed me to anyone who would listen. I have been severely judged for my decision, but I didn’t listen to their criticism. After all, no one ever judged my mother for what she did to me.
What can we learn from this story?
- Caring for your loved ones is important. While Brooke’s choice is controversial, it’s easy to understand her point of view, given her background.
- Forgiveness is divine. Sometimes, you have to be the bigger person. Caring for your parents when they’re old is a big duty, both financially and emotionally. Someone has to do it.
Share this story with your friends. It might brighten their day and inspire them.
If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one about a mother who left her disabled daughter at an orphanage.
I Was Humiliated at a Restaurant for My Age – So I Planned My Revenge
At 82, Everly faced discrimination when she was told she was “too old” and dressed “inappropriately” for a trendy restaurant. In response, she made a Facebook post that went viral, sparking outrage and calls for change.
My name is Everly, and I love trying new things, even at my age. One Thursday morning, my daughter Nancy surprised me with a visit to my garden shop. She suggested, “Mom, let’s try that new restaurant downtown!” Her excitement made me eager to go.
We both dressed simply; I wore a floral blouse and khaki pants, and Nancy was in jeans and a T-shirt. For us, it was about spending time together, not how we looked.
As we drove to the restaurant, we talked about how excited we were to make new memories. But our simple outing took an unexpected turn.
When we entered the restaurant, we were greeted by loud music and chatter. The place was lively, filled with a younger crowd who were stylishly dressed, making us feel out of place. Still, we didn’t mind; we were there to enjoy ourselves.
However, as we stepped inside, I noticed the host looking us over. His smile faded for a moment before he led us to a table by the window. It was a nice spot, but our experience quickly changed.
A young waiter came over, and while he initially seemed polite, his attitude shifted as he noticed our appearance. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding less than sincere, “but this place might not be suitable for you.” His words stung.
He continued, “You seem too old for our usual clientele, and your outfits aren’t appropriate for the vibe here.” Nancy turned red with anger, and I felt a deep sadness at being judged for my age and how I looked.
The waiter wasn’t done. He said we had to leave “so as not to spoil the appetite of our guests.” Before we could respond, he signaled two bodyguards who came to escort us out.
The embarrassment was overwhelming. I felt the eyes of other customers on us as Nancy squeezed my hand tightly. We quietly left, feeling hurt and rejected.
Outside, Nancy was furious. She took out her phone and snapped photos of the bodyguards. “We need to share this, Mom. People should know how they treat others,” she insisted.
Later, in her kitchen, we posted the pictures on Facebook. Nancy shared our story, highlighting how we were judged unfairly because of our age and appearance. She tagged the restaurant and asked her friends to spread the word.
The post quickly went viral, with thousands of shares and comments. People expressed their shock and shared their own experiences with ageism. The restaurant’s ratings plummeted as customers voiced their disapproval.
Amid the uproar, Mr. Thompson, the restaurant owner, reached out to me. He was shocked and apologetic about the incident. “Mrs. Everly, I’m so sorry. I had no idea this happened,” he said, revealing that the waiter was his son.
He invited me back for a complimentary meal and offered a personal apology. I appreciated his honesty but told him, “It’s not just about a meal. It’s about how people are treated.”
Mr. Thompson agreed and said he had talked to his son about respect for all customers, regardless of their age or attire. He emphasized that his son would not inherit anything until he understood these values.
Our conversation was hopeful. It showed a willingness to make amends and recognize the need for change. As we ended the call, I felt validated yet still aware of the larger issue of ageism.
A week later, I dressed in my best silk dress—a deep blue that highlighted my eyes. I was ready to return to the restaurant, not as a victim, but as a woman who deserves respect.
Entering the restaurant again, the door chimes felt louder this time. The atmosphere was the same, but I felt empowered. Mr. Thompson welcomed me with a warm smile and took me to a lovely table by the window.
The waiter, Mr. Thompson’s son, approached me with hesitation. “Mrs. Everly, I’m very sorry for how I treated you last time. It was unkind,” he stammered, looking genuinely remorseful.
His apology seemed sincere, and Mr. Thompson added, “My son and I have discussed this situation. I made it clear that we must respect all customers, no matter their age or how they dress. He will not be part of this business if he doesn’t embrace those values.”
Satisfied with their commitment to change, I enjoyed my meal. It tasted wonderful and felt like a celebration of respect and understanding.
After returning home, I posted an update on Facebook. I shared photos of the meal and the apologies I received. “Change is possible,” I wrote, “when we stand against injustice and those in the wrong are willing to listen and learn.”
Reflecting on this experience, I realized the power of one voice amplified by social media. It was about more than just a meal or an apology. It was a reminder that everyone deserves respect, regardless of age or appearance. This ordeal showed me the strength of my voice and the importance of standing up for my values.
As I reflected on the entire experience, I felt a sense of empowerment. This journey taught me that standing up for myself and others can lead to meaningful change. The response from the community reminded me that many people share the same struggles and that we must support one another in the fight against ageism and discrimination.
I continued to receive messages of support from friends and even strangers who appreciated my story. It was heartwarming to see how a single act of injustice could spark conversations about respect and dignity for everyone, regardless of age.
In the weeks that followed, I became more active in my community, attending local meetings and advocating for inclusivity. I wanted to ensure that no one else would face the same humiliation I did. I also kept in touch with Mr. Thompson and his son, encouraging them to foster a culture of respect in their restaurant.
Through this ordeal, I learned that our voices can make a difference, and our experiences, no matter how painful, can lead to positive change. I felt grateful for my daughter Nancy, who stood by my side and took action when it mattered most. Together, we had turned a hurtful moment into a powerful opportunity for growth and understanding.
As I walked through my garden one sunny afternoon, I smiled, knowing that I had turned a painful experience into a catalyst for change. I looked forward to more adventures with my family, always reminding myself that age is just a number and that everyone deserves to be treated with kindness and respect.
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