Rich Dad, Poor Dad? More Like Goodbye, Dad

Mom was sitting on the couch, which was also my bed. She was wearing an old, patched-up shirt, the only gift Dad had ever given her. "What's wrong, Lauren? Should we call Dad home? He recently lost his job, and he should be interviewing at the job fair."

Using that excuse, Dad hadn't come home for three days. Just then, Susan updated her status. "He said I needed to socialize, so he bought a golf course for me."

Mom's hands were swollen from years of hard labor, but the hands Dad held in the picture were fair and slender.

"Mom, Dad's having an affair."

I dared not look at her and silently lowered my head.

"Lauren, how could you say such a thing?" Mom exclaimed. "He's only been away for a few days. He's doing this for the family!"

I simply pulled out my phone and showed her the buyer information for the luxury jewelry purchased today. The handwriting, his appearance, and his ID were all a perfect match.

I immediately presented more evidence.

"Mom, Dad's been faking being poor for 30 years, but he's actually filthy rich. He doesn't need to work and has tons of money."

I stared as Mom's shoulders trembled uncontrollably. Tears fell from her eyes like pearls slipping off a string.

Dad only gave her a small allowance each month. She'd paid for my school fees by humbling herself repeatedly.

Not only was she a cleaner for a wealthy family, but she even swept the streets and cleaned public restrooms. She never had a day off.

She gave everything she had for the family, but Dad never once prepared any surprises for her. He even forgot their anniversary each year, claiming, "With our situation, what's the point of celebrating our anniversary?"

Although Mom looked forward to it, she never brought it up again.

Yet, Dad remembered every single one of Susan's preferences, and every gift held meaning.

"Mom, Susan is Dad's first love. He was only faking being poor because of a joke she made."

To make her see things clearly, I was mercilessly laying out the facts.

Mom stared at my phone screen and wept.

"On your birthday, which was the 15th of this month, he not only didn't give you a gift—he didn't even come home. On the same day, he splurged at the auction house and bought Susan a pigeon-blood ruby—"

The more I spoke, the tighter my throat was.

Mom interrupted me, her voice choked with emotion. "Can I just pretend I never found out about this?"

My blood boiled.

She still wanted to defend him at a time like this?

Yet, she added, "You're his daughter. He's so wealthy, so he'll definitely take care of you. It's fine if he divorces me, as long as he treats you well."

I didn't plan on crying, but I broke down in tears, too.

The hardship and pressure of life had molded Mom into a doormat, yet Susan got whatever she wanted because my Dad spoiled her.

How was this fair?

I wiped the tears from her face and said, "Even if you divorce, I'll take him to the cleaners!"