About fifteen minutes later, Sofia walked in. She looked flawless—perfect hair, manicured nails, makeup like something out of a magazine. All of it, in one way or another, traced back to the beauty clinic I had financed years ago with a loan against my apartment.
“So,” she said casually while opening a bottle of sparkling water, “are you just dropping that off, or are you planning to stay?”
Her tone pierced me.
“I thought maybe we could spend some time together. It’s been nearly two months.”
“I already have plans with Ryan,” she replied flatly. “We’re having dinner alone.”
Ryan—her third husband—was always polished, always talking about big investments, yet somehow every “urgent situation” ended with me paying for it. Just three weeks earlier, I had given sixty thousand pesos for one of his so-called emergency imports.
“I see,” I said quietly. “Maybe lunch tomorrow?”
She set the bottle down harder than necessary.
“Mom, we need to talk.”
I sat, bracing myself.
“I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “About my life… about what would actually make me happy.”
I tried to smile gently.
“Tell me, honey. If I can help—”
She cut me off with a cold stare.
“The best gift you could give me… is to disappear from my life. Honestly, it would be easier if you were just gone. Dead.”
Everything inside me stopped.
The laughter from outside faded. The room felt hollow, airless. I searched her face for a hint of regret, of emotion—but there was nothing. Just irritation.
“What… did you say?” I whispered.
“You heard me. I’m tired of you—your calls, your visits, your constant opinions. You suffocate me.”
My hands trembled uncontrollably.
“Sofia… I’m your mother. I gave you everything.”
“Exactly,” she snapped. “And that’s why you think you’re entitled to everything. I’m not a child anymore. I don’t need you.”
I glanced at the cake. The candles were still inside the box, untouched.
Slowly, I stood up. I took my purse—and the silver box. The necklace would not stay in a place where my love meant nothing.
“After everything…” I murmured.
She laughed coldly.
“You did it to feel important. Don’t pretend you’re a saint.”
Each step toward the door felt like walking through broken glass. At the threshold, I paused, hoping—just for a second—to see the little girl who once hugged me tightly and called me the best mother in the world.
She was gone.
“Happy birthday, Sofia,” I said softly.
And I walked away.