She told me they needed renovations and expected me to pay for them since it was my house.

I looked at the paper. It was a formal list with quotes from local contractors.

First, they wanted me to replace all electrical outlets with tamper-resistant models. That was 1,200 dollars.

Next, they wanted custom steel baby gates installed at the stairs. Another 2,500 dollars.

Then, they wanted the living room carpet removed because Vanessa claimed it held allergens. That was 4,500 dollars.

Finally, they wanted the entire first floor repainted with certified zero-VOC non-toxic paint. That was 6,600 dollars.

Total: 14,800 dollars.

When I asked about the 14,800 dollar total, David looked at the floor.

“Well, science has changed, Margaret,” my son said, refusing to look me in the eye. “Vanessa is right. The paint back then had chemicals. We just want to be safe. If you don’t do the updates, we can’t bring Leo and Lily over.”

My chest turned cold.

This was my son. The boy I skipped vacations for. The boy whose college I paid for by working extra shifts at the pharmacy.

I looked at the wooden stool sitting on the counter. The name “David” was still visible in Thomas’s shaky block handwriting.

I nodded slowly, looking at the list. Vanessa told me they needed the painting done first, and David added that the carpets had to go. I whispered that I would think about it, and Vanessa smiled, telling me not to take too long because summer was coming.

They left, taking the kids and the wooden stool with them.

I sat at the kitchen table for a long time. The house was quiet.

I am not a rich woman. I drive a 2004 Chevy Impala with rust spots on the doors.

I clip coupons for Meijer. I shop at Goodwill. My husband’s pension is small, and I watch every penny.

But I had savings.

I had savings because I helped them.

5 years ago, David’s drywall business failed. He was sued by a client. He lost everything. He was crying at my kitchen table, terrified that the bank would take their cars and ruin their names.