The medieval buildings that had seemed so romantic earlier now felt like ancient witnesses to my humiliation.
I opened my laptop and started typing a response to Addison’s comment, then deleted it.
Started again, deleted again.
What could I say that wouldn’t make things worse?
Instead, I called Michael.
It was early evening in Ohio, and he answered on the second ring.
“Mom, how’s the trip?”
His voice sounded normal, friendly, even as if his wife hadn’t just publicly attacked me an hour ago.
“Michael, we need to talk about Addison’s comment.”
A pause.
“What comment?”
“The one she just posted on my Facebook about rent money I supposedly owe you.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“Oh, that—”
“What rent money, Michael? I’ve never borrowed money from you in my life.”
“Well, not borrowed exactly.”
His voice trailed off.
“Then what exactly?”
I heard him sigh and in the background I could hear Addison’s voice saying something I couldn’t make out.
“It’s just we’ve been having some financial difficulties. The mortgage is higher than we thought it would be and Addison had to cut back her hours at the boutique. We were kind of hoping you might be able to help out like you did before.”
Like I did before.
There it was.
The expectation that had been hanging between us for years. Unspoken but always present.
“So, because I haven’t offered to give you money lately, Addison decided to publicly shame me about it.”
“She’s just stressed. Mom, money’s been tight.”
“Money’s been tight for me, too. Michael, do you know how I’m paying for this trip? With the money your father and I saved for 30 years. Money I’ve been afraid to spend because I thought I might need it for emergencies or to help my family if they needed it.”
“But we do need it.”
The words hung in the air between us.
No apology for Addison’s public attack.
No acknowledgement that what she’d done was wrong.
Just the simple statement that they needed my money, as if that justified everything.
“Michael, I helped you with your down payment. I helped with Tyler’s medical bills when he broke his arm. I’ve babysit countless times so you and Addison could go out. I’ve never asked for anything in return except to be treated with basic respect.”
“I know, Mom, and we appreciate—”
“Do you? Because your wife just told everyone on Facebook that I’m selfish and irresponsible for spending my own money on myself.”
I could hear them talking in the background, their voices tense and urgent.
“She’s willing to delete the comment,” Michael said finally.
“That’s not the point. The point is that she felt entitled to post it in the first place.”
“Look, Mom, maybe this trip wasn’t the best timing with everything going on.”
I felt something inside me snap.
“What exactly is going on, Michael? You have jobs. You have a house. You have a healthy family. What you don’t have is a mother who’s willing to sacrifice her own happiness to subsidize your lifestyle anymore.”
The words came out harsher than I’d intended.
But I didn’t take them back.
“Mom, that’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is your wife attacking me publicly because I dared to spend my own money on myself instead of giving it to you.”
I hung up before he could respond.
My hands were shaking again, but this time it wasn’t from hurt.
It was from anger.
Pure clean anger at being treated like an ATM instead of a person, at having my joy in this beautiful experience poisoned by their greed and entitlement.
I opened my laptop again and looked at Addison’s comment, now with even more responses from people judging me based on incomplete information.
The injustice of it burned in my chest.
Then I noticed something that made my blood run cold.
She hadn’t just commented on that one post.
She’d gone back through my entire photo album from the trip, leaving passive aggressive comments on multiple pictures.
On a photo of me at the Eiffel Tower:
“Must be nice to have that kind of disposable income. Some of us have responsibilities.”
On a picture of my hotel room in Rome:
“Looks expensive. Hope it’s worth leaving your family behind.”
On a photo of me at the cooking class:
“Learning to cook for one seems about right.”
Each comment was carefully crafted to sound concerned or humorous while actually being cruel.
And the worst part was that people were responding to them, engaging with her narrative that I was a selfish woman abandoning my family for frivolous pleasures.
I sat back in my chair feeling sick.