We wanted to help him. That’s all it ever was, pure and simple. He was struggling, running his small renovation business, barely making ends meet. Our son. Our bright, kind, talented boy. It broke our hearts to see him worry so much, to watch him and his wife scrape by. We had to do something.
Our house needed work anyway. A big project, a whole kitchen remodel, two bathrooms, and a new deck. We’d been saving for years, planning to hire a reputable company, but then the idea hit us: why not hire him? It was perfect. We could pay him fairly, give him a significant chunk of work, and he could use the income to get back on his feet. It felt like a blessing, a chance to help without it feeling like charity. We presented it to him like a business opportunity, not a handout.
He was hesitant at first, always so proud. But his wife, she was thrilled. She practically jumped for joy, thanking us profusely. She understood the weight this would take off their shoulders. We sat down, discussed the scope, the timeline, the budget. We were generous. We offered above market rates for his labor, ensuring he could pay his crew well and still have a good profit margin.
Bleachers in a school hall | Source: Midjourney
We even said we’d cover all material costs upfront, so he wouldn’t have to float anything. It was a substantial sum, enough to clear his lingering debts and give them a fresh start. We shook hands. It felt wonderful, like we were finally doing something truly meaningful for our family.
The first few weeks were good. He was here every day, working hard, meticulous as always. His crew was respectful. We’d make them coffee, bring out snacks. We loved having him around, seeing him focused and engaged. But then, things started to shift.
It began subtly, with his wife. She’d drop by more often, ostensibly to bring him lunch, but she’d linger. She’d look at the plans, then at us, then back at the plans. “Are you sure this tile isn’t too cheap?” she’d ask, her voice a little too sweet. Or, “This fixture… it’s what you picked, of course, but for this kind of project, shouldn’t it be something more… substantial?” We’d patiently explain our choices, reminding her we’d gone for quality and durability within a generous budget.
Then came the calls. She’d call us directly, not him. “He says you want a bespoke cabinet for the pantry. That’s a lot of extra work, you know. He’ll have to charge more for that.” We’d explain, “No, we just picked one from the catalog he showed us. It’s a standard size.” And she’d sigh dramatically. “Well, he feels it’s more complicated. You should really consider increasing his labor fee.”
An art supply closet | Source: Midjourney
We were taken aback. We’d already agreed on a very fair price. But to avoid conflict, to keep the peace for our son, we agreed to a slight bump. Just to make everyone happy. It was a slippery slope. Every material change, every minor tweak, led to another demand for more money from her. Not from him. He’d just look tired, almost apologetic, when we’d bring it up. “She’s just trying to look out for me,” he’d mumble, avoiding our eyes.
The renovations started dragging. Deliveries were late. Workers would show up sporadically. Our house became a construction zone for months longer than planned. We started to feel like a bottomless pit of cash, constantly being asked for more. “The cost of wood has gone up exponentially, you know!” “His time is precious, he could be taking on other, more lucrative jobs!”
It culminated in an explosive argument. We finally put our foot down. “We’ve already paid you above and beyond what we agreed,” I said to her, trying to keep my voice calm, “and the project is still not finished. We need to stick to the original agreement.”
Her face went from sweet to sour in an instant. Her voice, usually soft, sharpened into a vicious blade. “You know what?” she spat, practically yelling at us in our own half-renovated kitchen. “You’re just a couple of STINGY JERKS! You say you want to help him, but you’re nickel-and-diming him while he works his fingers to the bone for you!”
An upset little girl standing in an art supply closet | Source: Midjourney
My jaw dropped. My husband went rigid beside me. Stingy jerks? After everything we’d done? After pouring tens of thousands of dollars into their lives, trying to give our son a leg up? We were stunned, hurt beyond words. The betrayal felt like a punch to the gut. Our son stood there, silent, looking at the floor, unable to meet our gaze. That was the most painful part. His silence.
We told them to finish what they’d started, and then that was it. No more work, no more calls. We paid him the final agreed sum, though the work wasn’t quite perfect, just to be rid of the tension. The project finally ended, and we pulled away. It was agonizing. The chasm between us and our son felt wider than the Grand Canyon. We heard less and less from him. His wife never called again. The silence was deafening, heartbreaking.
Months passed. The joy of our new kitchen was overshadowed by the gaping hole in our family. We missed him terribly. We just couldn’t understand how it had gone so wrong. How could such generosity be twisted into such resentment? We replayed the scene in our heads constantly. “Stingy jerks.” The words echoed in our empty home.
Then, the call came. Not from him, not from her. It was from his old business partner, a man who had always been fond of us. His voice was strained, thick with sadness.
A person holding a roll of toilet paper | Source: Unsplash
“I need to tell you something,” he started, “about why he… why things got so bad with his wife, and the renovation.” My heart pounded. Here it comes. The explanation for her greed. Some terrible, secret debt.
“He was diagnosed, just before you offered him the job,” the partner continued, his voice cracking. “A rare, aggressive form of cancer. They gave him maybe a year, maybe less. He didn’t want you to know. He was so proud, he didn’t want to burden you. He thought he could work through it, maybe save enough for his wife, for their future, before… before he was gone.”
The phone slipped from my grasp. It clattered to the floor, but I barely heard it. My husband was looking at me, his eyes wide, sensing something terrible.
He was dying.
And his wife… she wasn’t calling us “stingy jerks” because she was greedy.
She was calling us “stingy jerks” because she knew her husband was losing his battle, and she was desperate.
She was trying to squeeze every last penny out of us, not for frivolous reasons, but because she knew what was coming. She was trying to build him a legacy. She was trying to secure her future, his future, without being able to tell us the TRUTH.
The silence of our renovated home, the gleaming new countertops, the perfect deck – it all felt like a tomb. We thought we were helping him get back on his feet. We thought we were being taken advantage of. We thought she was cruel.
A little girl dressed in a mummy costume | Source: Pexels
But she wasn’t cruel. She was terrified. She was doing everything she could for the man she loved, who was slowly, quietly, dying right under our noses. And we, his parents, were too busy being offended, too busy counting pennies, to see the pain, the terror, in her eyes.
He passed away three weeks later. And the last words I ever heard from his wife, words that now pierce my soul with a pain more profound than grief, were “STINGY JERKS.”
Oh, GOD. The weight of it. The unbearable, crushing weight.
