My Daughter Said: “The Best Gift Would Be If You Just Died” – So I Immediately Canceled the Funding.

“Don’t worry, my girl,” I would say every time she called me crying.

“Your education is the most important thing.”

When she married Hugo, I organized and paid for the entire wedding—$35,000 so she could have the wedding of her dreams. The most elegant hall in the city, the most beautiful flowers, the menu she chose without worrying about the price.

“I want my princess to have everything,” I said as I signed check after check.

And then came the house, that cursed house where she had just humiliated me. When Rebecca and Hugo decided they wanted to buy their first property, I didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Don’t worry about the down payment,” I told them.

“I’ll take care of it.”

It was $150,000 from my life savings, the money I had been putting away for my retirement. But it didn’t end there.

When the twins arrived five years ago, I became the free nanny. Every night Rebecca wanted to go out with Hugo, every time they had plans and needed someone to watch the kids, there I was without charging a cent.

I was happy to be able to help my daughter have the life she had always dreamed of. When Hugo lost his job last year, who paid the mortgage payments for eight months?

I did—$16,000 that I took from my pension. Money that meant eating rice and beans for weeks to stretch my income.

And when the twins needed braces, another $4,000 that I covered without a second thought.

“Don’t worry,” I told them, seeing their distressed faces.

“That’s what grandparents are for.”

I got up from the sofa and went to my desk, where I kept all the receipts, all the proof of every cent I had spent on my daughter and her family. There were boxes and boxes of documents I had saved, not out of distrust, but because it made me proud to remember everything I had been able to do for them.

I started doing the math. Raising Rebecca from birth until she became independent: approximately $200,000.

College: $42,000. The wedding: $35,000.

The down payment on the house: $150,000. The mortgage payments when Hugo was unemployed: $16,000.

The twins’ braces: $4,000. Birthday and Christmas gifts over all these years: at least another $20,000.

The total was devastating: more than $460,000. Almost half a million that I had invested in my daughter’s happiness.

And all for what? To hear that her greatest wish was for me to die.

Tears fell onto the papers as I added and subtracted. If I had put that money into a savings account with compound interest today, I would have more than $600,000.

I could be living in a nice house, traveling the world, enjoying a comfortable retirement instead of counting pennies in this tiny apartment. But no, I had chosen to invest in love.

I had chosen to believe that the money spent on my daughter was a good investment. That every sacrifice was worth it because in the end I would have a daughter who would love me and take care of me in my old age.

How stupid I had been. I picked up the phone and dialed Rebecca’s number.

I needed to hear her voice one more time. I needed to confirm that she had really said those terrible words.

“What do you want now, Mom?” she answered with annoyance after the fifth ring.

“Rebecca, I need to know if you really meant what you said to me today,” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Of course I was serious,” she replied without a hint of remorse.

“Mom, it’s time for you to understand that I need space. Your obsession with me isn’t healthy.”

“Obsession?” I repeated in disbelief.

“To call a mother’s love an obsession?”

“Yes, exactly that. And I hope that after today you finally get the message. I need you to respect my boundaries and let me live my life.”

I hung up the phone without saying goodbye. There had been no misunderstanding.

My daughter truly believed that my love was a burden, that my presence in her life was a problem she needed to solve. I couldn’t sleep that night.

I lay awake staring at the ceiling, remembering every beautiful moment we had shared. Every hug, every “I love you mommy” that had come from her lips.

Had it all been a lie, or had I simply raised a daughter who had become so selfish she couldn’t see beyond her own needs? At 3:00 in the morning, something inside me changed.

The sadness began to transform into something different—into rage, into indignation, into the clear understanding that I had been used, manipulated, and discarded like a used tissue.

My daughter wanted me to die? Well then, maybe it was time to give her exactly what she asked for.

The next day I woke up with a mental clarity I hadn’t felt in years. Sadness had given way to something more powerful: determination.

If my daughter wanted me to disappear from her life, I would, but not in the way she expected. I got dressed in my best clothes and went out with a clear purpose.

First stop: the bank, where I had the joint account with Rebecca for her house’s emergency expenses. The account I had opened just in case, and into which I had deposited $20,000 for any unforeseen event.

“Good morning, Mrs. Julieta,” the manager, Mr. Martinez, greeted me.

He had known me for years. “How can I help you today?”

“I want to close joint account number 4587 A 2891,” I said with a smile he interpreted as kindness, but which was actually pure vengeance.

“Are you sure? That account has a considerable balance of $20,000,” he cautioned, checking his computer screen.

“Completely sure. I want to transfer all of that money to my personal account,” I replied, signing the papers with a steady hand.

Seeing those $20,000 returned to my personal account gave me a satisfaction I hadn’t felt in years. It was just the beginning.

Next stop: the mortgage loan office. The previous year, when Hugo was unemployed, I had co-signed the mortgage on their house.

That meant if they couldn’t pay, the responsibility fell on me. But it also meant I had rights to that property.

“Mrs. Julieta,” the officer, Miss Gonzalez, greeted me.

“What brings you here?”

“I want to review the mortgage contract where I am listed as a co-signer,” I explained.

“I need to understand exactly what my rights and obligations are.”

As she looked for the documents, I remembered the day I signed those papers. Rebecca had cried with emotion.

“Thank you, Mommy. I don’t know what we would do without you. You’re our salvation,” she had said, hugging me tightly.

Hugo had also thanked me, promising they would never be late on the payments.

“Here are the documents,” the officer said, placing a thick folder in front of me.

“As the co-signer, you are responsible for the payments if the primary holders cannot make them. But you also have the right to claim the property if you believe the debtors will be unable to fulfill their obligations,” she completed the sentence as I read the contract carefully.

“Exactly. Is there a problem with the payments?” she asked with professional concern.

“I am assessing the situation,” I replied, putting a copy of all the documents in my bag.

“What would I need to do if I decided to exercise my rights?”

“As a co-signer, you would have to demonstrate that there is a risk of non-payment or that there have already been significant delays. In your case, I see that you covered eight monthly payments last year, which is already sufficient evidence that the primary holders lack financial stability.”

Perfect. Hugo had lost his job again last week, information Rebecca had given me without thinking about the implications.

She thought she was indirectly asking for my help, but what she was really giving me was the ammunition for my revenge. I left that office with a smile.

My dear daughter had no idea the storm that was coming.

Reclaiming the Assets of a Lifetime

Third stop: my personal lawyer, Mr. Anselmo Garcia, a 70-year-old man who had been a friend of my late husband. He knew my entire family situation and had witnessed my sacrifices for Rebecca for decades.

“Julieta,” he greeted me warmly.

“What brings you to my office? It’s not often I see you here.”

“Anselmo, I need your help with something very important,” I said, sitting down across from his desk.

“I want to change my will completely.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Has something happened with Rebecca?”

I told him everything. Every hurtful word, every moment of contempt, the coldness with which she had wished me dead on her own birthday.

Anselmo listened in silence, his expression growing more serious with each detail.

“Julieta,” he said finally.

“I am so sorry for what you’re going through. I never thought Rebecca was capable of something like this after everything you’ve done for her.”

“Neither did I,” I sighed.

“But I’ve made my decision. I want to change my will and leave everything to a charitable organization. I also want to set up a trust for my grandchildren, but I want Rebecca to have no access to that money until they turn 25.”

“That can be done,” Anselmo nodded, taking notes.

“Do you also want to change the beneficiaries of your life insurance policy?”

“Of course. Everything that is in Rebecca’s name, I want it changed. My daughter wants me to die, but when that happens, she won’t receive a single cent from me.”

We spent two hours reviewing all my legal documents. My $100,000 life insurance policy, my savings, my apartment, my investments—everything that was previously designated for Rebecca would now go to the Orphaned Children’s Foundation where I had volunteered for years.

“There’s something else,” I said as we were finishing.

“I want you to prepare all the documents to reclaim the house where Rebecca lives. As a co-signer on the mortgage, I have rights, and her husband just lost his job again.”

Anselmo’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Now I see where you’re going with all this. Are you sure you want to go this far?”

“Completely sure,” I replied with a determination that surprised me.

“My daughter told me her life would be easier if I disappeared. Well, I’m going to disappear. But first, I’m going to make sure she understands exactly what it means to live without me and without everything I’ve done for her.”

When I left Anselmo’s office, it was already dark. I walked through the streets of my neighborhood feeling renewed, as if I had woken up from a very long dream.

For 45 years, I had lived for Rebecca. I had sacrificed my own dreams and desires to give her everything she wanted.

But not anymore. I got back to my apartment and poured myself a glass of wine, something I hadn’t done in years.