Chapter 1: The Prize and the Price

My son's senior project took home an award, and the prize was a whopping three thousand dollars.

The day he got the check, he burst through the door grinning ear to ear, practically bouncing on his toes. He looked so happy I could hardly believe it. I remember thinking how proud I was—he'd worked so hard, and now it was all paying off. He tossed the envelope on the kitchen counter. I kept glancing at it, wondering what he might do with that money—maybe save for college, maybe something for the family. The house felt lighter that evening, like possibility was in the air.

He spent fifteen hundred on a pair of limited-edition sneakers for himself. Seven hundred and fifty went to a new suit for his dad. The rest? He used it to book his grandparents a spot on a guided bus tour to Niagara Falls.

He showed off those sneakers with the kind of joy only a teenager could have—posing in the hallway mirror, snapping pictures for his friends. The suit for his dad was a real surprise; Rick beamed when he tried it on, the suit still stiff, tags dangling from the sleeve. As for his grandparents, they called that night, voices trembling with excitement. "We haven't been on a real trip in years," his grandma said, already talking about which camera to bring. I could hear the tears in her voice. The whole family buzzed with his generosity, and I stood quietly on the sidelines, heart pounding with a strange mix of pride and anticipation. I wasn't sure what would come next.

I thought maybe he had something even bigger planned for me. So I waited. Hopeful.

I kept glancing at the mail, at my phone, at him... Every time he walked by, my heart did this silly leap, as if he might pull a surprise out of thin air. Maybe a dinner out, or something he'd made with his own hands. I told myself not to expect anything, but hope is a stubborn thing. Still, I couldn't help it.

When he finally noticed me waiting, he frowned. "You’re just a stay-at-home mom. You never did anything for me—why do you think you deserve any of my prize money?" The words landed like a punch. I felt my face flush, my hands go cold.

His words stung like ice water down my back. He didn't even look at me as he spoke, fingers drumming on his phone. There was no malice—just a cold certainty. As if my work, my care, my years... had all been invisible.

Hearing this, my husband Rick shot me a look—pure contempt. "Stay-at-home moms have it easy. You already get everything handed to you, and now you want to spend your son’s money too? You’re just never satisfied." Like he’d been waiting to say it for years.

Rick's voice echoed off the kitchen tile, sharp and dismissive. He didn't even bother lowering his voice. The silence after was heavy, the kind that makes you feel like you should apologize just for standing there.

Later, everyone in the family signed up for health insurance—except me. No one even asked.

The forms came in the mail, stacks of paperwork and glossy brochures. I watched as Rick filled them out at the dining room table, Jamie scribbling his name on the dotted line, the grandparents fussing over the details. No one handed me a pen. No one asked if I needed coverage. The message was clear: I didn't count. I guess I never did.

They said stay-at-home moms never get tired, so they never get sick. "Moms are built different," Rick would say, smirking. "You never see her slow down." Jamie would chime in, "Yeah, she's like a robot." Even the grandparents laughed. But the laughter always felt a little cruel, like a private club I wasn't part of. I forced a smile, but inside I felt hollow.

In the end, I was the only one who fell seriously ill from exhaustion. Ironic, really.

It started with headaches. Then the bone-deep fatigue. I kept pushing through, cooking, cleaning, making sure everyone had what they needed. But my body finally gave out.

When they saw how much the surgery would cost, they just... gave up.

I heard the whispers in the hospital room, the way Rick's voice tightened when he asked about the bills. Jamie wouldn't meet my eyes. The decision was made quietly, efficiently—no drama, just resignation. I was too expensive. Not worth the trouble. I wasn't worth it.

I ended up dying alone in the hospital. No one held my hand.

The beeping machines, the sterile light, the distant sound of laughter from the hallway—I faded out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. No one held my hand. I wondered, in those last moments, if I had ever truly belonged in my own family.