I married David five years before his teenage son, Josh, came to live with us.

From day one, Josh made it clear: I wasn’t his mother, and I never would be.

He mocked everything about me—my cooking, my music, even the way I spoke.I put my heart into building a connection, but he gave nothing in return.

By his senior year of high school, college was approaching, and money was tight.

I had an inheritance that could have covered his tuition, so I offered—purely out of support, with no expectations.He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You can’t buy your way into being my mom.” David sided with him. That day, I stopped trying.

Five years passed.

Then, out of nowhere, Josh called—not to reconnect, but to ask for money for his destination wedding.

I wasn’t even invited.

“If you care about this family, you’ll help,” he said. David chimed in: “This is your opportunity to make things right.” Fix what, exactly? Being treated like an outsider for years?

I agreed to meet for dinner.

They proudly shared plans for a $75,000 dream wedding.

I stepped away briefly, then came back with a folder: inside was a check—and a contract.

Josh would have to start calling me Mom, include me in family events, and treat me as more than just a bank account. He signed it.

I smiled, then threw the whole thing into the fireplace.

“Guess I could buy my way in after all,” I said.

Then I handed David an envelope—divorce papers.

I refuse to stay in a family that only sees me as a source of money.