I signed the papers a week later. The notary explained everything, but I was barely listening. I trusted my son. He was my own flesh and blood—the child I had carried in my womb, whom I had nursed, whom I had raised with so much love.
How was I to know I was signing my own sentence?
At first, everything seemed normal. I received my monthly pension, about $1,200. It was not much, but it was enough to live with dignity. I bought food, paid the bills, treated myself to something small every now and then.
But after a few months, things started to change.
Julian began to come by more often, but he no longer brought food, or stayed to talk. He would check my purchases, open the grocery bags, look at the receipts with a frown.
“Mom, why did you buy these cookies? They’re too expensive. There are cheaper brands. Three types of soap? One is enough at your age. Meat every day? You should eat more vegetables. It’s better for your health.”
At first, I thought it was genuine concern. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was overspending. After all, I had lived so many years counting every penny that now, with some money, maybe I was going overboard.
But the criticisms became more frequent, harsher. Sophia started to chime in, too.
“Mom, why do you need the heater on all day? A sweater keeps you just as warm. You’re wasting electricity. Brand-name medicine? The generics are the same and cost half as much.”
I started to feel guilty for everything I bought, for every dollar I spent of the money Arthur had left for me. I started buying less, turning off the heat even when it was cold, making do with the bare minimum.
And then the day came when I went to the bank to get some money, and the teller looked at me strangely.
“Mrs. Rivas, your account is almost empty. You only have $300.”
I thought there was a mistake. My monthly pension should have come in a week ago, plus the savings I had in there. I called Julian immediately.
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