I had been hoping, maybe even assuming, that she would contribute something toward my son’s education. He’s about to start college, and every penny helps. The cost of tuition, books, housing—it’s overwhelming. I never expected her to cover everything, but a little help would have gone a long way. And now, all I could think about was that $1,800, sitting in her closet, worn once or twice, while my son would have to take on even more student loans.

I couldn’t keep my frustration to myself, so I brought it up carefully. “Mom,” I said one afternoon over coffee, “I saw the dress you bought. It’s beautiful, but… I guess I just don’t understand. That money could have helped Jason with college.”

She took a slow sip of her tea and placed her cup down gently. “I know,” she said. “And I thought about that.”

Her calmness only frustrated me more. “Then why?”

She exhaled deeply, folding her hands in her lap. “Because for seventy years, I have been more than just a mother, but I’ve never let myself be anything else. I’ve spent my entire life making sure my kids had everything they needed. I sacrificed things I wanted, even little things, without a second thought.”

She paused, her gaze distant, lost in years of memories I had never fully considered. “But now… now I’m seventy. My children are grown. I love my grandchildren, and I will always help where I can. But just once, I wanted to do something purely for me. Something that made me feel special. Something that reminded me that I’m still a person, beyond just being a mother and a grandmother.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Had I ever stopped to think about how much she had given? Had I ever considered that maybe, just maybe, she had earned this moment?

I had been so caught up in my own struggles, in my belief that family should come first, that I hadn’t realized she had already given more than enough. She had spent decades putting us first, without hesitation. And now, she was simply asking for one thing—for herself.

That night, I went home and thought long and hard about it. Was I still upset? A little. Did I still wish she had chosen to help my son instead? Of course. But for the first time, I saw the situation through her eyes.

She wasn’t just my mother. She wasn’t just my son’s grandmother. She was a woman who had given her entire life to us, and for the first time in seventy years, she had chosen to give something to herself.

And maybe—just maybe—that wasn’t selfish at all.