When my stepson Josh moved in at 16, he made it clear he hated me. No matter what I did, he’d sneer, “You’re not my mom.” By his senior year, I offered to pay his college tuition with money from my grandmother’s inheritance — not to buy love, but to give him a future. He glared at me and said, “You can’t buy your way into being my mom.” My husband David agreed. The rejection cut deep, and I pulled back completely.

Five years later, Josh called out of the blue. “I’m getting married,” he said, before asking me for money to help fund his lavish destination wedding. He added, “You’re not invited, but if you actually care about this family, you’ll help.” I refused. When I told David, he accused me of ruining my chance to fix things and even hinted at ending our marriage.

So I set a trap. I invited Josh, his fiancée, and David to dinner. After they bragged about their $75,000 wedding plans, I slid a folder across the table. Inside was a contract: I’d cover all expenses if Josh acknowledged me as his mother and treated me as family. Furious but greedy, he signed.

That’s when I tossed the folder — and the check — into the fire. Then I handed David divorce papers. “I don’t want to be part of a family where my only value is a checkbook,” I told them. And with that, I walked out, leaving them to realize some things can’t be bought.