Her composure only added to my frustration. “Then why buy it?” I pressed.
She let out a long breath, folding her hands in her lap. “Because for 70 years, I’ve been more than just a mother, but I never let myself be anything else. I’ve devoted my life to making sure my kids had whatever they needed, sacrificing my own wants—even the small ones—without a second thought.”
She looked away for a moment, as though revisiting memories I’d never fully acknowledged. “But now, I’m 70. All of you are grown. I adore my grandchildren and I’ll continue to help when I can. However, I wanted to do something just for me this once—something that made me feel special, something that reminded me I’m still a person, not only a mother or grandmother.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.
For the first time, I considered how much she has given. It dawned on me that, perhaps, she deserved this. I’d been so focused on my own difficulties and the idea that family should always come first that I forgot how tirelessly she had put us ahead of herself for decades. Now she was asking for one thing—for herself.
I spent that night reflecting. Was I still upset? A bit. Did I still wish she had chosen to help my son? Of course. But I finally started seeing things through her eyes.
She isn’t just my mother or my son’s grandmother. She’s a woman who devoted a lifetime to others and, for the first time, decided to do something just for her.
And maybe—just maybe—that isn’t selfish at all.