“Mom,” Daniel said, his tone clearly annoyed, “we’re kids now, we can’t depend on you anymore, nor you on us. Everyone has to solve their own problems. Lorena and I have enormous expenses. The kids go to very expensive private schools. We have two cars to maintain, a mortgage to pay. We can’t keep subsidizing your medical expenses.” Carmen was speechless. Her son considered helping his sick parents to be subsidizing them. Mónica was more direct. “Mom, you should have saved for your old age.”
I told them years ago to sell that old house and move to something smaller so they’d have money saved. But they didn’t listen. Now they can’t come asking us to fix their financial problems. I have my own life, my own career. I did enough when you raised me. That was your decision, your responsibility. Carmen hung up the phone, breathless. Monica had actually just said that raising her children had been solely her responsibility, as if children had no moral obligation to care for their elderly parents.
Sebastián was evasive. “Mom, you know the art world is unstable. Some months I earn well, other months I barely survive. I can’t commit to helping you financially on a regular basis. Besides, Dad has government health insurance.” “No, that should cover your basic needs.” Government insurance covered very little, as Sebastián would well know if he had bothered to ask or investigate. Gabriela was the one who hurt the most. She, the youngest, the little girl who had once said that when she grew up she would build a beautiful house for her parents so they could live like royalty.
“Mom, I have to be honest with you,” Gabriela said in a rehearsed voice, as if she had practiced this speech. “Eduardo and I have been talking, and we feel you should consider selling the house. It’s too big for two elderly people. The upkeep must be a nightmare, and the neighborhood isn’t what it used to be. You could sell, divide the money among the four of us siblings as an advance inheritance, and you could move to a retirement home or a smaller, more manageable apartment.”
Carmen felt as if she’d been slapped. Gabriela said, her voice trembling, “You’re suggesting we sell our house. The house where we raised all of you, to give you money as an advance inheritance.” “Don’t look at it that way, Mom,” Gabriela replied, her tone turning defensive. “Think of it as a smart investment in your future. With your share of the money, you could easily pay your medical expenses. It’s a solution that benefits everyone.” “It benefits everyone, except your father and me,” Carmen said, feeling a fury she hadn’t felt in years.
“This house is our home, Gabriela. We live here. Our memories are here. We’re not going to sell it to give you money.” “Are you being selfish, Mom?” Gabriela replied coldly. “When you die, the house will be ours anyway. Wouldn’t it be better to sell it now, when we can all benefit, including you?” Carmen hung up the phone without answering. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely hold the receiver. She sat down on the sofa, that old sofa where she had spent so many nights breastfeeding her babies, comforting her children when they had nightmares, waiting for her teenagers to return from their first dates.
And she wept. She wept in a way she hadn’t wept in decades, with sobs that shook her entire body, with a pain so profound it felt like it was tearing her in two. Fernando left the room, walking slowly with his cane. The stroke had left his left side weak, and now he walked with difficulty. He sat beside Carmen and hugged her. Although they both knew there were no words that could console the pain they felt. “We were wrong,” Fernando whispered, his voice breaking with emotion.
We thought that by giving them everything, sacrificing ourselves for them, raising them to be successful, we were preparing them for life. But all we did was raise four selfish strangers who only think about money. Carmen didn’t respond because there was nothing to say. Fernando was right. Somehow, somewhere along the way, they had failed as parents, not in giving them love, because they had given them all their love, not in giving them opportunities, because they had sacrificed themselves to the point of exhaustion to give them every opportunity.
Perhaps they had failed to teach them about gratitude, about loyalty, about what it truly means to be family. The following weeks were a nightmare. The four children began calling more frequently, but not to ask how their parents were. They called to pressure them about selling the house. They had met amongst themselves. They had done the math. They had hired an appraiser without Carmen and Fernando’s permission. The house, located in a neighborhood that had become highly sought after over the years, was worth approximately $200,000.
Think about it, Daniela Carmen would say every time she called, you could keep 300,000 for yourselves and split the other 900,000 between the four of us. That’s 225,000 for each of us. With 300,000 you could live comfortably for the rest of your lives, pay for all your medications, you could even travel a little. But Carmen and Fernando wanted to travel. They wanted to stay in their house, to die in their house, the house they had bought 45 years ago when their four children were small. Every corner of that house held a memory, like the kitchen door frame where they had marked their children’s height each year.
The garden where Fernando had built a swing set for the children. The room where Carmen had sewn 1,000 dresses while her children slept. The dining room where they had celebrated every birthday, every Christmas, every small triumph of their children. No, Fernando said firmly when the four children showed up together one afternoon to talk seriously about the house. This house is not for sale. As long as I am alive, as long as your mother is alive, this house is our home. And when we die, then they can do whatever they want with it, but not before.
The expressions on the faces of his four children were one of disbelief followed by barely contained fury. “Dad, you’re being ridiculous,” Monica said harshly. “You’re elderly with health problems and insufficient income. It’s irresponsible to cling to such a valuable property when you could sell it and live comfortably.” “We already live comfortably,” Carmen replied. “We don’t need luxuries, we just need our home.” “And what about us?” Sebastian asked, his voice rising. “Aren’t parents supposed to leave something for their children?”
You’re selfishly clinging to a house that will be ours anyway when you die. Why not give it to us now when we really need it? Carmen looked at her son, that son who had once been so sensitive, so empathetic, and saw a complete stranger. “Do you need it?” Carmen asked with a calmness she didn’t feel. Sebastián, you live in a 200-square-meter apartment. Mónica, you drive a car that costs more than your father earned in his entire life.
Daniel, your children go to private schools where the monthly tuition is more than we spend on food in a year. Gabriela, you live in a six-bedroom mansion. Neither of you needs this money. You want it, it’s different. We deserve it, Gabriela said, her voice as cold as ice. After everything we’ve accomplished, after making something of our lives, despite coming from such a modest home, we deserve that money.
Gabriela’s words echoed in the ensuing silence like a death sentence. Carmen felt something die inside her at that moment. Not pain, not anger, but something more devastating. The death of hope. The hope that her children were good people. The hope that the love she and Fernando had given them had created adults with values. The hope that family meant something. “Go,” Fernando said in a voice Carmen had never heard from him before.
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