I’ve been my son Ben’s rock forever—it’s a mom’s job. I’d soothe his toddler tears, shrug off his teen fender-bender with my sedan, and even embraced his wife, Tara, despite her cool stares. So when they turned up, beaten down, I swung my door wide. “Mom,” Ben said, hunched over my counter, “we’re jobless—company’s gone global.” I patted his arm, “You’re home here ‘til you’re steady.” His grateful look tugged my heart—my lone kid. “One more thing,” he added, eyeing Tara’s nod. “Can the house go in my name? For a loan—proof I’ve got roots. We’ll fix it later.” My throat tightened, “Why this?” “To restart—a business,” he urged. “You’re my son,” I agreed—papers, not loss, I reasoned.
They moved in—I gave up my main room, bunked in the small one, cooked, cleaned, tapped my nest egg as his job hunt stalled. But the air grew heavy. Tara skipped gratitude; Ben scrolled, silent; my leather chair became her “spot” for their freelance hustle. My home, yet I felt sidelined. Then, grocery bags in hand, I saw my suitcase by the door—a hint. Tara stood firm, “You’d love a retirement spot.” Ben slouched, avoiding me. “My house,” I breathed, faint. “Not anymore,” she said. “Safer for your age elsewhere.” Ben whispered, “Don’t drag this out, Mom.” I walked away, purse-only, gutted.
A shelter took me in—kind eyes, no fuss—as I mumbled, “Just tonight.” On a creaky cot, staring at a damp patch, hurt morphed to fury by morning. I texted a friend, swearing I’d fight. At dawn, Ed, my lawyer pal, called, “House is yours—Ben’s deed flopped, unfiled right.” I chuckled—his haste backfired. I snagged a cheap studio, slept easy at last. After a week plotting with Ed, I rang Ben, cool, “House stays mine—law’s clear. Out by month’s end.” He choked, “I sent it!” “Not enough,” I said. Tara wailed in the back—he pleaded, “Let’s fix this—” “End of month,” I shut him down.
They vanished in days—no farewell, just scuffs on my wood. I roamed my space, feeling it relax—mine again. New rugs, pansies out front, my chair back—I woke renewed. Ben pings me now and then—holidays, mostly. Gossip says Tara’s gone—trust shattered them. I sit by my window, tea in hand, dusk warming my walls, recalling the boy I raised and the man who shoved me out. I learned love’s no free pass—closest ones can cut worst. Bet he’s wiser now too.
