When I turned 69, I finally received a sum of money I’d been waiting years for. My own money. Earned the hard way. The kind you protect like treasure. I had plans for it, you know to fix the old roof on my house, set some aside just in case things got tough, maybe even treat myself to a little joy after all those years of work.
But the moment my family caught wind of it… well, that’s when my nephew turned up at my door all smiles, sweet as anything, with his charming way of talking. He told me about this sure-fire business, a golden opportunity, and how he just needed a little push to really take off. He spoke so convincingly, so earnestly, that, well, I believed him.
I remember him promising hed pay it all back in six months with interest, mind you. Said it was solid, quick, safe. That he wasnt like the others whod failed. And I, thinking I was giving him a hand as well as helping myself, handed him the money.
No papers. No signatures. Nothing but his word.
I thought: Hes my nephew, he wouldnt do me wrong.
At my age, you still want to trust familys got some honour left.
How naive I was.
Six months went by nothing.
He told me business was going well but needed just a bit more patience.
By the eighth month, he stopped answering my calls.
By the tenth, I heard through the grapevine he was spending like mad as if he owed no one a penny.
When I tried reaching out again, he took offence.
Spoke sharply, accused me of not trusting him, that I was putting him under pressure, making him look bad in front of everyone. Thats when I realised something was off… but I still hoped hed come to his senses one day.
And the worst part didnt even come from him, it came from the rest of them.
From my own brothers.
They sided with him.
Told me things like:
Stop harassing him.
The money will come back.
Hes doing all he can.
And then the digs started that I was miserly, What do you need it for, at your age? That it was ridiculous for me to cling to some amount. In the end… they stopped talking to me altogether.
Nearly seventy, and I was treated like a criminal just for asking for what was mine.
One day, I finally faced him openly. No going around the houses.
He reacted aggressively.
Told me I was pressuring him.
Said if I kept asking for my money back, hed never set foot in my house again.
As if that ought to devastate me.
I just looked at him and thought of it all:
How Id always welcomed him in.
How Id trusted him.
How Id defended him when others called him irresponsible.
And now he without a hint of shame dares to get angry at me for asking for what rightfully belongs to me.
Three years have passed.
Three.
Some people tell me to let it go that, at my age, peace of mind is worth more.
Others say not to drop it because if you stay quiet, theyll walk all over you even more.
Im caught in the middle.
No signature, no paperwork.
Just his word a word he shattered without a flicker of guilt.
And every time I ask for my money, the family gets upset.
They look at me like Im a nuisance, as if Im the villain, the reason for all the trouble.
But the truth is simple:
Ive never asked for what isnt mine.
I just want whats rightfully mine.
