When my stepson Josh moved in at sixteen, he made it clear I was unwelcome. No matter what I did—cooking his favorite meals or suggesting movie nights—he responded with cold glares and snide remarks. “You’re not my mom,” he’d spit, as though it was poison. Still, I tried. When his senior year came and college loomed, I offered to pay his tuition using an inheritance from my grandmother. His response? “You can’t buy your way into being my mom.” And David, my husband, agreed. That night, I learned exactly where I stood—and stayed silent after that.

Five years passed. Then, out of nowhere, Josh called. “I’m getting married,” he announced. “It’s a destination wedding in Costa Rica. Kelsey and I are hoping family can help out… financially.” I asked if I was invited. He said no—“only close family.” But he still wanted my money. I declined. He hung up. David was furious. “This was your chance to fix things!” he snapped. “Maybe I should reconsider our marriage.”

So I invited them to dinner—Josh, Kelsey, and David. After a meal filled with awkward small talk, I handed Josh a folder with a generous check and a contract. “You’ll call me Mom. Include me in holidays. Treat me with respect,” I said. Josh, eyes locked on the check, signed.

Then I tossed it all into the fireplace.

From under the key bowl, I pulled out divorce papers. “I’ve also reconsidered,” I said, placing them in front of David.

Some things can’t be bought. But sometimes, the price reveals the truth.