My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

I stood at the ribbon-cutting with Marcus beside me, cameras flashing, employees clapping, the local chamber of commerce pretending they had always believed in our newest expansion. I wore a navy suit, pearl earrings, and the gold watch Warren gave me on our fortieth anniversary because he said success should occasionally be visible from across a room. The air smelled of new rubber and polished tile and dealership coffee, which is its own species of optimism.

When the ribbon fell and everyone cheered, I had a sudden memory of the first garage Warren and I rented on the edge of town. One bay. Leaking roof. One ancient desk. We bought the place with money borrowed from a bank manager who told Warren he admired a man willing to start with used equipment if the books were honest. We did everything ourselves. Warren under the hoods. Me on the books. Me also mopping floors when the part-time cleaner quit. Him also picking up sandwiches and apologizing because he forgot mustard. We were poor long enough to respect every line item and in love enough to think exhaustion was romantic if shared properly.