My daughter threw hot coffee at me when I refused to give my credit card to her son

I wasn’t the woman who softened every instinct just to keep the peace. I had made peace with something else now. The fact that not every daughter is a blessing.

Some are warnings. The letter ended with, maybe we can talk? I really miss you. We all do.

I closed the page and stared at the envelope again. It was thick. Like she’d closed something extra.

I reached inside. There it was. A personal check.

From me. Drawn from one of the joint accounts she’d once set up, just to help streamline. Uncashed.

Torn slightly at the corner. $3,500. In the memo, car repairs.

I hadn’t written it. But my name was printed on it, clear as daylight. She must have kept it.

Or forged it. Or both. I didn’t need to know which.

All I knew was, this wasn’t an olive branch. It was bait. Dangled with a fake tear and a familiar signature.

I folded the check in half. Then in half again. Then again.

Until it disappeared in my palm, like every false promise she’d ever made. I walked it straight to the shredder. Not a word.

Not a flinch. Just paper turning into dust. I left the envelope open on my desk.

Let it sit there like a carcass. A reminder that not every letter is meant to be answered. When Gerald came by later that afternoon with his usual lemon cake, he saw it and raised an eyebrow.

She tried again. I handed him the remaining half of the letter. He read it in silence.

Then handed it back. Still thinks you’re a mark? Not anymore, I said. That night, I didn’t journal.

I didn’t need to. Because the sentence had already written itself in my head. I don’t care what you meant.

What you did was enough. The call came just after dawn. I was up early, watching the koi through the morning mist.

A cup of hot water steeping beside me. Gerald’s voice was calm but firm. The trust flagged another forged check.

Same account. Same signature. But you didn’t write it.

I know, I said. She sent me one last week. There was a pause.

Well, he said. Now the bank knows too. Turns out Lisa had tried one more time to dip into my old accounts.

But this time, the trust’s protective locks snapped shut. And the bank had proof. Withdrawals.

Signatures. Emails from her IP address. Even a voice message she left for a representative asking what her mother’s balance was.

As though she still had any right to my name. She wasn’t subtle. She was desperate…