If His Mom is So Rich, She Should Pay Child Support: The Price of Pride and Survival

“If his mom is so rich, she should pay child support.”

The words hung in the air like the heavy scent of fried onions in my tiny kitchen. My best friend, Jenna, didn’t bother to lower her voice. She was standing by the cracked countertop, arms crossed, watching me unpack the latest batch of hand-me-downs from Karen—my ex’s mother. They weren’t just any hand-me-downs. I could tell by the labels—mini Polo shirts, little shoes that looked like they belonged in a magazine, a book bag with a tag still on. She hadn’t even looked at the prices, but it was clear those items weren’t cheap. They must have been worth hundreds of dollars.

Jenna’s face was a mix of disbelief and envy. “Claire, you know I love you, but this is ridiculous. You can barely pay rent and she’s giving you—what—Gucci for toddlers? Doesn’t she know what you actually need?”

I snorted, shoving the shoes back in the bag. “What am I supposed to do, Jenna? Say no thanks? She’s John’s grandma. If she wants to spoil him, I’m not going to stop her.”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but what about when you can’t even buy milk at the end of the month? She swans in here like the Queen of Cleveland, but you’re the one raising him, not her. You should be getting child support.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I glanced down the hallway toward John’s room, where he was humming to himself, probably building something with his raggedy Legos. My heart twisted. I could almost feel the cold creeping in through the windows. Winter was coming, and the gas bill would be due again.

Karen had always been polite, almost unnervingly so. She’d never outright said I wasn’t good enough for her son, but she hadn’t needed to. The way she pursed her lips when she saw my thrift store boots, the way she’d suggested John should go to a “better” preschool—one I could never afford. My ex, Mark, was barely around, sending a text every few weeks but never any money. Mark had a knack for disappearing when things got hard, and Karen had the resources to make sure he never faced any consequences.

Jenna’s voice dropped, softer now. “Claire, I just hate seeing you struggle. John deserves more. You deserve more.”

I could feel my pride bristle. “I’m not asking them for anything. I can handle it.”

Jenna shook her head. “You shouldn’t have to handle it alone.”

After she left, I sat on the kitchen floor, the bag of expensive clothes beside me. I held a tiny jacket up to the light. It was soft, bright red, and smelled faintly of Karen’s perfume. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if John’s father actually pitched in. If I could open the fridge at the end of the week and not worry about what I’d feed him. If I could buy him a new winter coat without doing the math in my head for days.

That night, as I tucked John in, he hugged me tight. “Mommy, Grandma says I can go to her house next weekend. She has a pool!”

I smiled, brushing the hair from his forehead. “That sounds like fun, honey.”

He looked up, his eyes wide. “Why don’t we have a pool?”

I swallowed hard. “Because pools are a lot of work, kiddo.”

He seemed satisfied with that answer, but I could hear Karen’s voice in my head, dripping with concern. “John looks so thin, Claire. Are you sure he’s eating enough?” I wanted to scream, to tell her that if she cared so much, she could help pay for his groceries, for his doctor’s visits, for the field trip slip I had to sign with shaking hands because I didn’t know if I had five dollars to spare.

The next day, I sat at the laundromat, watching the dryers spin, Jenna’s words echoing in my mind. It’s easy to live and eat luxuriously when you have money, but what about those who don’t?

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Mark—just a meme, nothing about John. I wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead, I typed, “John needs new boots. Winter’s coming.”

He didn’t reply.

That night, I found myself searching the Ohio legal aid website, reading about child support. The forms looked impossible, the language cold and intimidating. I imagined Karen’s face if she got served papers. The thought made me sick with guilt and fear. Would she take it out on John? Would Mark finally show up, angry and unpredictable?

The next time Karen visited, she brought a casserole and a new set of pajamas for John. She smiled, but her eyes flickered over the peeling linoleum, the stack of unopened bills. “You know, Claire, you could always ask Mark for help. He’s not a bad father—he just needs a little push.”

I almost laughed. “I’ve pushed enough,” I said quietly. “I’m not sure I have anything left.”

That night, Jenna called. “Did you ask her?”

I hesitated. “No. I can’t. I just… I don’t want to be that person.”

“That person who fights for what her kid deserves?” Jenna snapped. “You’re not asking for a handout, Claire. You’re asking for what’s right.”

I cried then, silent tears leaking down my face as I listened to the hum of the fridge and John’s soft breathing from his room.

The next morning, I called the county office. My hands shook as I explained my situation. The woman on the line was kind, guiding me through the process. When I hung up, I felt both lighter and heavier at the same time.

A week later, Mark showed up at my door. He looked tired, older. “Mom said you’re going after child support.”

I met his eyes. “John deserves better. I deserve better.”

He didn’t argue. He just nodded, staring at his feet. “I’ll figure it out.”

After he left, I sat with John on the couch, holding him close. I thought about pride, about survival, about the invisible price of asking for help when you’ve spent your whole life being told to do it on your own.

Now, I wonder—how many mothers out there are fighting the same battle, torn between dignity and desperation? When does survival become more important than pride?