I never imagined I’d be questioning my own mother’s choices, let alone over a dress. But there I was, staring at a receipt for nearly $1,800—spent not on a vacation or a medical emergency, but on a designer outfit. A luxurious purchase made not out of necessity, but preference. And all I could think was: Why not help your grandson with college instead?
My mom is 70 now. Throughout her life, she’s been the epitome of selflessness—raising five kids with limited resources, juggling jobs, and constantly putting our needs above her own. I remember her patching up the same old coat winter after winter, while making sure we had new school supplies or warm clothes.
She never splurged on herself. So when I found out she had bought an expensive dress—for her book club meetings and social lunches—I was genuinely shocked.
My son is about to begin his college journey, and the costs are daunting. Tuition, rent, textbooks—it’s a financial maze. I’d quietly hoped my mother might offer some help. Not to foot the entire bill, of course, but even a little contribution could make a difference. Instead, $1,800 now hung in her closet, likely to be worn once or twice.
I couldn’t hold back my feelings, so I brought it up gently over coffee.
“Mom,” I said, “the dress—it’s lovely. I just thought… that money could’ve gone toward Jason’s tuition.”
She looked at me calmly and said, “I know. I did think about that.”
That quiet answer only fueled my frustration. “So why did you buy it?”
Her response caught me off guard.
“For seventy years,” she began, “I’ve been more than just a mother. But I never let myself be anything else. I’ve always made sure everyone else was taken care of. I let go of small dreams, indulgences—without a second thought.”
She paused, eyes distant, clearly remembering the many sacrifices she had made.
“But now I’m seventy,” she continued. “My children are adults. I love my grandkids, and I’ll support them when I can. But this once, I needed to do something just for me. Something that made me feel like a whole person again, not just a caregiver.”
I sat there, unable to respond. Had I ever really considered all she gave up for us? Had I truly acknowledged the years she poured into everyone else’s dreams but never her own?
That night, I went home with a heavy heart and a different perspective. Was I still disappointed? Maybe a little. Did I still wish she’d helped my son? Yes. But for the first time, I understood her side.
She wasn’t just a grandmother or a mother—she was a woman who had given her entire life to others. And for once, she allowed herself something personal, something joyful.
And honestly? That didn’t feel selfish anymore. It felt deserved.
