At Christmas, my 7-year-old daughter received a broken doll while her cousins unwrapped expensive gifts. My brother laughed, “Poor kid only deserves broken things.” My mother nodded, “Your child isn’t good enough for better.” I held my crying daughter and walked out, leaving one line behind: “From now on, none of you will get anything from me.” They all laughed… until my brother suddenly yelled.

My mother had been forced to move in with them, sleeping on a pullout couch in the living room, listening to her golden boy argue with his wife over unpaid utility bills every night.

There were no more lavish Christmas parties. There were no more expensive bourbon toasts or catered dinners. There was no one left for them to exploit, to manipulate, or to trample on to make themselves feel superior. They had lost their status, their home, and their only life preserver, all because they couldn’t resist the urge to be cruel over a broken plastic doll.

I took a sip of my coffee, a profound, unshakable peace settling deep into my soul.

They had stood in my living room and called me poor. They had looked at my daughter and deemed her worthless.

But as I watched Mark lift Lily into the air, spinning her around as she giggled wildly, her new doll clutched safely in her hand, I knew the absolute truth.

I am the richest person in the world.