On Father’s Day my millionaire son walked into my freezing apartment, saw the tinned soup on the table, and asked how I was managing on the eight thousand a month his wife sends me. I told him nobody sends me anything.

Let him think I’m comfortable.

Four messages. Four requests. All from me. All answered by that woman with one word each time, which was: ok.

Because I did not want my son standing in that apartment looking at that heater.

I had an extremely clear picture of what my son’s face would do if he stood in that room.

I was right about it. Completely. I have now seen it, from about four feet away, on Father’s Day, and it was exactly what I had been avoiding for three years.

That is the only thing in this whole account that I predicted correctly.

That woman did what her father-in-law asked her to do.

Repeatedly. Against her own judgement. For three years, while sending eight thousand dollars a month into an account she had every reason to believe I was using.