20 minutes later, my phone rang.
Mom, what is this?
David’s voice was barely controlled panic.
There’s a legal document here saying you own our apartment building. It says you own the whole complex.
I was ready for this conversation. I’d been preparing for it all week.
Yes, David, I do.
The silence on the other end stretched so long, I wondered if the call had dropped.
You what? How is that possible?
I bought it 6 years ago when the previous owner was facing foreclosure. It was a good investment.
But But how? Where did you get that kind of money?
I settled back in my chair, the one Oilia thought I should replace.
I’ve been buying rental properties for 15 years, sweetheart. This building, the strip mall on Fifth Street, several apartment complexes across town. I own 37 properties in total.
Another long silence.
Then 37 properties. Mom, that’s that’s millions of dollars.
Yes, it is.
But you live in this tiny apartment. You shop at thrift stores. You always said you were on a fixed income.
I never said I was on a fixed income. You assumed that because I’m 70 and live modestly.
And yes, I shop at thrift stores because I see no point in paying full price for clothes when perfectly good ones are available for less.
I could hear him breathing heavily, trying to process what I was telling him.
Why didn’t you ever tell me?
Because I didn’t want to be treated differently. I wanted to know that people cared about me for who I am, not what I have.
So, when we asked for help with the down payment on the car, you could have just written a check.
Yes.
And when Oilia needed money for her mother’s medical bills, I could have covered all of it without thinking twice.
But you made us apply for loans. You let us stress about money for years.
I took a breath, choosing my words carefully.
David, I’ve given your family over $400,000 in the past 5 years. The car loan I co-signed and ended up paying off when you defaulted. The vacation to Europe that became a loan you never repaid. Every Christmas, every birthday, every emergency.
I helped because I wanted to, not because I had to.
$400,000.
His voice was barely a whisper.
The apartment building alone saved you over $120,000 in rent over 5 years. I charged you 2,800 when market rate was 5,500.
Oh my god. Mom, I had no idea.
I know you didn’t, but Oilia did.
What do you mean?
I’d been dreading this part, but it needed to be said.
She knew I was helping financially. She just never cared to find out how much I was sacrificing to do it.
I don’t understand.
David, at Christmas dinner, I heard her on the phone with her sister. She called me that tacky old lady who was only invited to pay for everything.
The silence this time was different, heavy with the weight of recognition.
She said that among other things, she laughed about how I didn’t belong in your house, how embarrassing I was, how grateful she’d be when you made enough money that you wouldn’t need my handouts anymore.
Mom, I I don’t know what to say.
You don’t need to say anything, but you need to understand something. The rent increase isn’t personal vindictiveness, it’s business.
You’re now paying market rate for a luxury apartment, the same rate any other tenant would pay.
But we can’t afford market rate. You know that.
Then you’ll need to make some choices.