My son sent me to a nursing home on my birthday… but he soon deeply regretted it.

It was my seventy-fifth birthday. As always since becoming a widow, I awoke alone, sunlight trickling through the curtains. My mornings were quiet rituals, filled with objects that carried memory: the chipped mug Diego once gave me as a child, the comforting scent of tea, framed photographs from another lifetime. That day, my son and his wife arrived right on time, dressed impeccably, carrying chrysanthemums and smiles that felt rehearsed. Their gift, they said, was a trip. Two weeks away to “rest.” I didn’t ask questions. Deep inside, I already understood this was not a holiday.

A Familiar Road

The drive was tense, their words clipped, their eyes avoiding mine. Memories surfaced—of another trip, decades earlier. Back then, we took my mother to a state-run nursing home after her stroke, because we couldn’t afford her care. She passed away there of sorrow, and I never forgave myself. That wound reopened because fields and forests blurred past the window. When we arrived, my chest tightened: the sign read “Golden Years.” My home. The refuge I had produced in my mother’s memory. They didn’t knew that they were leaving me at the very place I had developed.

The Truth Emerges

CONTINUE READING ON THE NEXT PAGE 🥰💕