My spoiled daughter told her friends that she wants me DEAD rather than POOR.
The Tale of Two Daughters
My spoiled daughter told her friends that she wants me dead rather than poor, but her reaction made me realize she deserved none of the fortune she expected. Stephanie grew up getting whatever she wanted the moment she wanted it because I thought giving her everything would make her confident and successful.
Private schools, ski trips, designer clothes, a new car at 16, another new car at 18 because the first one wasn’t cool anymore. I paid for her Ivy League education, her apartment, her spring breaks in Cabo, her unpaid internships at fashion magazines, her startup that failed, her second startup that also failed. She never heard the word no. And I told myself I was setting her up for success.
Meanwhile, her younger sister, Ruby, got a completely different childhood, not because I loved her less, but because I’d remarried, and my second husband insisted on teaching financial responsibility. Ruby worked part-time jobs for spending money, wore regular clothes to public school, and drove a used car she bought with her own savings.
She got scholarships for state college and worked nights at a restaurant to pay for books and supplies. I thought she was missing out on the advantages I was giving Stephanie, but Ruby never complained, just worked harder.
When I called them both to announce my financial disaster, Stephanie’s first response was, “Oh my god, Mom, this is so embarrassing.” “What will people think?”.
Ruby immediately asked if I was okay and how she could help. I told them I’d invested my retirement savings in a friend’s business that turned out to be a scam, and I’d lost everything, including the house.
Stephanie said, “Well, you can’t stay with me.” “I only have a one-bedroom, and Brad wouldn’t be comfortable with that.”. Brad was her boyfriend of 3 months, who practically lived in the apartment I was still paying for. Ruby said she’d convert her home office into a bedroom for me immediately.
Over the next few weeks, the differences became even more extreme. Stephanie called to complain about how my situation was affecting her. Her friends were asking questions, and it was humiliating. She actually asked me to tell people I was traveling instead of bankrupt because it sounded better.
She said she couldn’t help financially because she had her lifestyle to maintain, but maybe Ruby could get a second job to support me since she was used to working anyway.
Ruby was already working on solutions. She showed up with a budget spreadsheet calculating how we could manage expenses together. She’d researched social services I might qualify for and made appointments for me. She brought groceries every week and cooked extra meals so I’d have leftovers. She even offered to sell her car and take the bus so we’d have emergency funds.
The real test came when I told them the house was being foreclosed and I needed help moving. Stephanie said she had a spa weekend that had been planned for months and couldn’t reschedule. When I said I’d lose everything if no one helped, she said, “maybe you should have thought about that before making risky investments at your age.”.
She actually sent me links to homeless shelters saying they weren’t that bad and some even had private rooms. Meanwhile, Ruby took time off work that she couldn’t afford to help me pack. She rented a truck with her credit card and enlisted her boyfriend to help load boxes.
Stephanie texted that day asking if I could Venmo her $500 for her spa treatment because her credit card was maxed out and she promised to pay me back when things got better.
Three months into my bankruptcy, I invited both daughters to dinner at Ruby’s apartment where I’d been staying. Stephanie showed up 40 minutes late complaining about traffic and immediately asked Ruby why she’d chosen such a cheap neighborhood.
She spent the entire meal talking about her problems, how hard it was to find good help, how expensive her gym membership was, how Brad wanted to vacation in Europe but she could only afford Mexico. Not once did she ask how I was managing or if I needed anything.
Finally, I said, “I have something important to tell you both.”. I stood up and pulled out my bank statements.
