I am broken. My family… it’s shattered, utterly destroyed, and it’s all my fault. Every single piece of the wreckage is because of me. I sit here, staring at the ruins of what was once my life, wondering how I ever thought I was doing the right thing.
I have two daughters. One, my eldest, I always called my golden child. She was beautiful, smart, resilient. Always seemed to land on her feet, always independent, always thriving. She never asked for much, always kept her thoughts to herself. My other daughter, my youngest, was my tender heart. Sweet, sensitive, a little more fragile. She always seemed to struggle more, to need a little more help, a little more guidance, a little more… everything. My heart ached for her, always.
When their father, my ex-husband, passed away unexpectedly, it was a shock. A devastation. He was a good man, complicated, but he loved his girls. He left a will. And in that will, he left everything to my eldest. Her, and her alone. It was a fortune. More money than I’d ever imagined. A significant estate, property, investments. I remember the lawyer reading it, and my stomach twisted. Why only her? I couldn’t understand it. It seemed so… lopsided. Unfair.
Ben and Fin Affleck are seen entering an art supply store on July 25, 2022 in Paris, France | Source: Getty Images
At the same time, my youngest was in a spiral. Eviction notices piled up, her job was unstable, and she was battling some persistent health issues that drained what little she had. Every call was a plea, every conversation filled with despair. I saw her drowning. I saw her beautiful spirit dimming under the weight of constant struggle. My heart was breaking into a thousand pieces.
I looked at my eldest, seemingly effortlessly navigating life, with this vast new wealth she didn’t need. And I looked at my youngest, drowning in debt and despair. It just wasn’t right. As a mother, I felt it in my bones. I wanted to balance the scales. I wanted to help my struggling child. My golden child had so much, my tender heart had so little. A small percentage wouldn’t hurt her, I rationalized, not really. It would be a lifeline for her sister. A simple act of maternal justice.
My eldest had given me access to her accounts years ago, for things like shared household bills after her father and I divorced, before she was fully independent. She trusted me. And I betrayed that trust. I told myself it wasn’t stealing. It was… borrowing. A temporary redistribution. I’d replace it. One day. I made a transfer. A massive chunk. Nearly half of the inheritance. I funnelled it directly to my youngest’s account, disguising it as an anonymous gift, a distant relative’s unexpected generosity, anything to keep the truth hidden. I made her promise never to speak of it, to keep it our secret.
The relief in my youngest’s voice was palpable. She paid her debts, found a new place, started to heal. She began to breathe again. Her laughter returned, brighter than before. And I, her mother, felt a perverse sense of satisfaction. I had fixed it. I had saved her. I had done what any good mother would do.
But the guilt was a constant hum beneath the surface of my life. Every time I looked at my eldest, a quiet dread settled in my chest. She never mentioned the inheritance, never seemed to notice the missing funds. She was always so private about her finances, so self-sufficient. I convinced myself she wouldn’t even check, wouldn’t care. That the money was just sitting there, unused, unneeded.
Violet Affleck and Jennifer Garner at Jennifer’s Hollywood Walk of Fame Star ceremony in Hollywood, California on August 20, 2018. | Source: Getty Images
Years passed. The hum of guilt grew into a dull ache. Then, one afternoon, the phone rang. It was my eldest. Her voice was strained, tight. “Mom,” she said, “I need to talk to you. I need the money. All of it. Now.”
My blood ran cold. My stomach dropped to my feet. NOW?! After all these years? My mind raced, searching for excuses, for lies, for a way out. But there was no way out. The money was gone. Long gone. Used. Spent.
She came over, her face pale and drawn. She sat across from me, her eyes, usually so calm, now clouded with an unfamiliar panic. “I went to transfer it,” she started, her voice barely a whisper. “And it’s not there. Nearly half of it is just… gone. Vanished.”
I tried to deny it. I tried to deflect. But her gaze was unwavering, piercing. And then, the words just tumbled out of me, a torrent of shame and fear. “I took it,” I choked out, tears streaming down my face. “I gave it to your sister. She was in so much trouble. I had to help her.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Her face, usually so composed, crumpled. Not in anger, not yet. But in a profound, gut-wrenching despair. Her eyes filled with tears, then rage, then a look I’d never seen before: utter, desolate betrayal.
“Mom,” she said, her voice shaking, a raw, ragged sound. “Mom, how could you?”
Then she stood up, her entire body trembling, and looked at me, her eyes blazing with a pain so deep it shocked me. “That wasn’t just my inheritance, Mom! That wasn’t just extra money for me!” Her voice rose to a scream. “That was the money Dad set aside, specifically, to pay off the predatory loan he secretly took out years ago! The one he used OUR FAMILY HOME as collateral for! The one that would be foreclosed on next month if it wasn’t paid in full! He told me on his deathbed, he begged me to save the house, to protect our family’s future, because he knew I was the only one he could trust with that secret, with that burden!”
Violet Affleck and Jennifer Garner at the White House state dinner for French President Emmanuel Macron in Washington, D.C., on December 1, 2022. | Source: Getty Images
MY FAMILY HOME. The home I had lived in for thirty years. The home I thought was fully paid off, secure. The home she was now about to lose because of my actions.
I stared at her, unable to breathe. My ears were ringing. ALL CAPS filled my mind. IT WAS FOR THE HOUSE. FOR OUR HOME. FOR OUR FAMILY.
She stumbled out, leaving me alone in the shattered silence. My youngest eventually found out the truth from her sister, who confronted her in a fury I never knew she possessed. My tender heart, overwhelmed with guilt and shame, disappeared, unable to face either of us.
My golden child, who had shouldered her father’s secret, who had silently carried the burden of saving our home, now had nothing left but the crushing weight of impending loss. And me? I’m here. Alone. My daughters don’t speak to me. My family home is gone. My entire world, reduced to ashes.
I didn’t save my family. I completely, utterly, irrevocably ruined it.
