My son called me a burden for years—so I made him beg for a room in my new mansion

My son called me a burden for years—so I made him beg for a room in my new mansion
"Mom, you're becoming a real burden. Maybe it's time you figured out your own life." I smiled, nodded, and quietly finished washing my coffee cup. What he didn't know was that by next month, he'd be standing outside the gates of my new $2.3 million mansion, begging me to let him move in.
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So let me take you back to where this all started. My name is Margaret, I'm 70 years old, and for the past three years, I'd been living in the cramped guest bedroom of my son David's split-level house in suburban Phoenix. But this story really begins four years ago, when my world completely fell apart.
When my husband Robert passed away from cancer after a brutal eight-month battle, I thought the hardest part was over. I was wrong. Robert had been the family's financial manager for our entire 45-year marriage, and I had no idea how precarious our situation had become. Despite having what I thought was decent insurance, the medical bills were astronomical. Experimental treatments not covered by Medicare, specialized equipment, round-the-clock care in those final weeks - it all added up to a staggering $180,000 in debt.
I remember sitting at my kitchen table, surrounded by manila envelopes filled with medical bills, collection notices, and legal documents I couldn't understand. The funeral alone had cost $15,000, money I didn't have. The mortgage on our three-bedroom house in Scottsdale was $2,400 a month, and my teacher's pension only brought in $1,800. I'd taught third grade for thirty-seven years, thinking I'd done everything right, saving what I could, trusting that Robert had handled the rest.