Susan barely slept that night.

The call echoed in her mind like a bitter song on repeat. She sat at her kitchen table long after the moon had crept across the sky, her cup of tea cold, untouched. Her fingers ached from wringing her hands, from all the thoughts that came and went—mainly one:

“We don’t owe you anything.”

She had heard many things in her life—some cruel, some careless—but never that. Not from her own son.

Ben had been a sickly baby. She remembered nights pacing the floor, whispering lullabies through her exhaustion, praying his fever would break. She remembered patching torn school uniforms, baking cookies for school events, cheering the loudest at football games. Every scraped knee, every broken heart—she had been there.

And now, this.