At Christmas, Mom Slapped My Son And Said, ‘He Should Be Grateful.’…

The World Weighs In

Oliver was watching cartoons after breakfast when I eventually checked my messages. There were 30 missed calls and 83 SMS.

Twelve texts, each more desperate than the last, had been sent by mom. Emily’s texts were identical, with the last one saying:

“My friends are calling me, people I go to church with. Everyone has seen this. How could you humiliate me like this? Ben received the link from his supervisor. Are you aware of how we appear? Michael, take that down or I swear to God.”

I received texts from family members I hadn’t spoken to in a long time—aunts, cousins, and my Uncle Frank, whom I had seen perhaps twice as an adult. The majority of them supported me.

“I’ve always known Aunt Mary handled you differently. I apologize for not speaking up better. Better is due to that boy. It’s about time someone confronted Jaime, your cousin.” One message said.

She was ruthless in what she did. However, some people stood up for mom.

“You’re broadcasting family business in public, Uncle Frank. There is shame in this.” Another said.

“Your mother adores you, Steve, my father’s sibling. This is rude.” A message read.

None of them received a response from me. Rather, I reopened Instagram.

6,500 people had shared the post. It had been featured on a local news page titled “Cruelty during Christmas goes viral. Outrage is sparked by the grandmother’s gift being excluded.”

Mom’s Facebook profile had been discovered. There were a ton of comments on her page.

Hundreds of strangers expressed their opinions about her.

“You ought to be embarrassed. This is something the young boy will always remember. This kind of favoritism kills families.” They wrote.

The screenshots were already making the rounds, even though mom had set her profile to private. Emily’s LinkedIn profile had also been found.

Posts were tagging her company’s page, asking:

“Is this the type of individual you hire?”

A Final Confrontation

My phone rang once more. Mom.

I gazed at her name as it appeared on the screen.

“Michael,” She said.

Her voice was trembling with anger and something more when I answered.

“Fear, now. You take that down. This has gotten out of hand.” She said.

“No.” I replied.

On the other end, there was silence.

“No? What do you mean, no?” She asked.

“Mom, I mean I won’t remove it.” I said.

“I’m being attacked by people, outsiders. I’m getting terrible messages from them. I’m being referred to as evil. Do you want it that way?” She asked.

“Last night I thought about Oliver’s face,” I answered softly.

“He had stated that he should simply express gratitude. I want you to understand what you did.”

“I took no action. I served him a delicious meal.” She said.

“He was able to join the family while he waited there with nothing. He got to see everyone else get presents. An iPhone is not necessary for him. He’s eight years old.” I replied.

“Mom, it has nothing to do with the phone.” I added.

“What is it about then?” She asked.

I gripped the phone tighter.

“It’s because Oliver and I have always been regarded as inferior by you, as if Emily should have everything and we should be content with the bare minimum.” I said.

“That is untrue.” She said.

“It’s accurate and it is now visible to everyone on the planet.” I replied.

She remained silent for a considerable amount of time. Her voice then became icy.

“You are no longer welcome in this family if you don’t remove this.” She said.

Something relaxed in my chest.

“I’ve been carrying that burden for 40 years. That’s okay with me.” I said.

I ended the call. The post remained active.

I didn’t reply to any remarks; I didn’t fuel the flames. I simply allowed it to be.

Allow it to spread. Give the internet the freedom to do what it does best when someone believes they were untouchable: hold them accountable.

The True Cost of Favoritism

Local news had contacted us for an interview by the third day. I said no.

This had nothing to do with typical notions of fame or retaliation. It was about consequences, about mom and Emily finally having to face the truth about what they had done without my intervention.

However, after the message went viral on social media, I began to examine my own life more closely. I began to see all the locations where I had served as the backup plan, the safety net, and the pocketbook that would never close.

I looked back six years in my bank records, made a spreadsheet, and recorded every wire transfer to mom, every Venmo to Emily, and every instance in which I had paid a bill or given money that was never returned. The figures increased more than I had anticipated.

Mom received $28,000 during a six-year period. Emily received $18,000 for credit card bills, auto payments, mortgage assistance, and urgent veterinary visits for a dog I had never even met.

I had been telling Oliver that we couldn’t afford things while supporting their lives on my own. I created an additional spreadsheet of existing financial connections.

Mom’s auto insurance still had me on it. It had never been taken out since I was 18.

She saved $300 a month because of a family discount. When Emily’s credit was poor six years ago, I co-signed her mortgage.

The loan still had my name on it. Mom’s phone plan allowed me to use it; two of her lines were covered.

I paid for Netflix, Hulu, and Disney Plus—the family’s pooled streaming services. They all used accounts that cost $50 a month.

Individual little things appear to be little. They created a network of interdependence that they had never recognized.

Taking Back Control

I reclined in my chair. Oliver was in school.

There was silence in the apartment. I wasn’t considering what I owed them for the first time in my life.

It wasn’t money I was thinking about, but what they owed me. Paper was all that money was.

They had to apologize to Oliver. I was entitled to respect from them.

They had never shown us the fundamental human decency we both deserved. It buzzed on my phone.

Mom called again; I turned it down. Emily texted me:

“You’ve made your point now. Take down the post and let’s move past this.”

Proceed as usual, as before. They had harmed me and expected me to smile and take it in stride.

I got my banking app open, started with my auto insurance, and canceled my mother’s policy. It required 10 minutes and a call to the business.

The phone plan comes next. I got in touch with the carrier, cut off her lines, and changed to a single plan that was only for Oliver and me.

The streaming services were simple; all the credentials were changed and all devices but mine were logged out. I gazed at Emily’s home, the mortgage document, and my name written in black ink beside hers.

I couldn’t just get out of a mortgage, but I could make sure she knew how powerful I was. I asked about my choices over the phone with a real estate lawyer.

“If you’re a co-signer and you want off,” The attorney stated.

“She’d need to refinance in her name only. However, the lender may foreclose or demand full payment if she is not eligible.” He said.

“What if I just stopped paying my half?” I asked.

“You’re not obligated to pay if you’re not living there, but it would hurt your credit too.” He replied.

I was thinking about it. I had good credit built by years of bearing their weight, being accountable, and making on-time payments.

Perhaps it was time to move forward. It might have been time to let them be themselves.

“Thank you,” I said to the attorney.

I added another entry to my spreadsheet and hung up.

“I’ll be in touch. Leverage on a mortgage.” I muttered.

Breaking the Cycle

Oliver and I had dinner together that night—spaghetti accompanied by meatballs. He informed me about a book they were reading about space throughout his school day.

He appeared happier and lighter, as if an unseen weight had been removed. I opened my laptop once more after he went to bed.

12,000 people shared the post. The remarks had changed now.

Mom was no longer the exclusive target of resentment. People were telling their personal tales of families who had been treated unfairly, children who had been viewed as inferior, and parents who had risen at last.

I had unintentionally sparked something greater than myself. My phone rang; I was unfamiliar with the number.

“Is this Michael?” A voice asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

“This is Sarah Lee from Channel 7 News. We’re doing a segment on family dynamics and holiday exclusion. Your story has really resonated with people. Would you be willing to talk?” She asked.

I paused.

“I’ll think about it.” I answered.

“I’ll think about it. Of course, here’s my direct line.” She said.

She gave me her number and disconnected.

“We’d love to hear your side, give you a platform to explain. We can keep your son’s face blurred for privacy.” She had said.

My laptop was shining in front of me as I sat in the dimly lit living room. Snow had begun to fall silently and softly outside.

A press interview wasn’t necessary for me. I didn’t have to tell strangers who I was.

However, it’s possible that mom needed to see that I wasn’t giving up and that this wasn’t going away. Just in case, I kept Sarah Lee’s number handy.

The Financial Fallout

Emily received her first bill on a Tuesday. A notice was delivered by her mortgage lender.

The money was not paid on time. That day she gave me 17 calls.

I didn’t respond. And lastly, a text:

“Michael, the mortgage payment bounced. Did you change banks or something?”

I carefully and gently typed back. Three dots emerged, vanished, and then reappeared.

“I’m not paying it anymore. You’ll need to handle it yourself.” I wrote.

“What the hell is wrong with you? This is my house.” She replied.

“It’s your house, your payment.” I said.

“You’re on the loan.” She said.

“I know. I’m also done.” I replied.

My cell phone exploded with calls from mom, Ben, and Emily. After switching it to quiet, I went to lunch with Oliver.

Mom received a notification from her auto insurance that evening. Policy changes resulted in the cancellation of coverage.

She was transferred to a single-person plan that was four times more expensive than her previous one. Notifications suddenly appeared in the family group chat that I had been silenced in for years.

“Michael took me off his insurance without warning. I can’t drive legally now.” Mom wrote.

“Emily says he’s doing the same with the mortgage. He’s trying to ruin us.” Emily added.

“Benjamin, this is beyond petty. This is financial sabotage.” Ben wrote.

Uncle Frank said:

“You all created this mess, maybe it’s time to face it.”

The conversation descended into chaos when Aunt Mary said:

“He’s not ruining you, he’s stopping enabling you.”

Members of the family took sides; accusations were flying, and old grievances were coming to light. I observed everything from the outside, quiet and disinterested.

Emily attempted to access Netflix on Wednesday: account error. She tried Disney Plus and Hulu: everything was locked.

One more text came, which I didn’t answer:

“Really? You’re cancelling streaming services? How pathetic.”