Dan, ever the devoted son, defended her. “People go through tough times,” he insisted. But something felt off. When I pressed for details, he admitted Irene hadn’t shared much. “She sounded upset,” he explained. “I know she’s not your favorite person, but she’s my mom. I can’t just leave her out in the cold.” My gut told me there was more to the story, but what could I say? She was, after all, his mother.

Reluctantly, I agreed. “She can stay in the guest room. But, Dan… promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. Something about this doesn’t feel right.” He sighed but thanked me, assuring me it was temporary. I wasn’t so sure. As I hung up the phone, a nagging feeling settled in my stomach. If Irene was truly struggling, why hadn’t she mentioned it before? And why did I feel like we were about to invite a tornado into our home?

The next day, my suspicions were confirmed. I expected Irene to arrive in an Uber or a modest taxi, but instead, a sleek black Bentley glided into our driveway. My jaw nearly hit the floor. I watched, wide-eyed, as a driver rushed to open the back door, revealing Irene in all her grandeur—tailored trench coat, oversized sunglasses, and a Chanel tote hanging off her arm like a trophy. This was not the look of someone who had just lost everything.

Dan, of course, was unfazed, rushing out to greet her with open arms. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she gushed, throwing herself into his embrace. “You’ve saved me! I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” Meanwhile, I stood frozen at the window, struggling to process the scene before me. Broke? Irene? If this was what financial ruin looked like, then I had seriously misunderstood the definition. And something told me this was just the beginning.