My Son Drove Around With Girls While His Wife Was D.y.i.n.g — My Response Drove Him To…

 

The fluorescent light over the hospital’s main entrance flickered, stuttering against the night. I stood under it, still clutching my purse as though that small act could anchor me to something real. The roar of the SUV had already faded, swallowed by the traffic, but its echo still rang in my chest. That car—the one I bought for him, the one meant to carry groceries and family picnics and, someday, a baby seat—had just sped past me full of strangers.

Inside that very building behind me, my daughter-in-law was fighting for her life. Alone. Unconscious. Starved and neglected. While my son—the man who once curled into my arms and promised he’d make me proud—was laughing under neon lights with girls who weren’t his wife.

My phone was still glowing in my hand, the message bright and obscene. At the hospital with Vada right now. Haven’t left her side. Pray for us.

The lie was so perfect it almost made me laugh. Almost.

I lowered myself onto the cold stone steps, staring at the words until they blurred. A nurse passed by, glancing at me briefly, probably assuming I was just another visitor overcome by grief. She wasn’t entirely wrong, though grief wasn’t what I felt anymore. It was something colder, sharper. Something that hummed just beneath my skin, like static before a storm.

I thought of all the nights I’d prayed for Sterling. When he was a boy, coughing through winters in our drafty Chicago apartment. When he studied late for exams, swearing he’d become a man his father would’ve been proud of. When he met Vada—gentle, clever, too soft for this world—and told me he’d finally found someone who made him better.

Better.

I rose slowly, every step deliberate, and walked back toward the glass doors. Inside, the air was heavy with antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of machinery. The receptionist looked up as I approached, her smile fading when she saw my face. “I— I just need to know if there’s been any change,” I said, though I wasn’t sure my voice made it past my lips.

“Still stable,” she said softly. “No updates yet.”

Stable. The word landed like a dull thud. Stable meant she was still breathing, still tethered to those machines. Stable didn’t mean alive, not really.

I thanked her and drifted toward the elevator, though I didn’t press the button. My reflection in the polished metal doors startled me. I looked like my own mother in the last months of her life—shoulders squared out of habit, eyes too bright, mouth drawn tight to keep from shaking. The woman staring back at me didn’t look like someone’s mother anymore. She looked like someone preparing for war.

On the second floor, a vending machine hummed softly beside a row of plastic chairs. I sat and watched families move in and out of the ICU corridor—fathers gripping Styrofoam coffee cups, children wrapped in blankets, the quiet choreography of fear and hope that fills every hospital at night. They were united by love, even in pain.

I thought about the empty condo. The rotting food. The unpaid bills. The dust on the medicine that might have saved her.

He hadn’t just neglected her. He had abandoned her.

I closed my eyes and saw him as a child again, his knees scraped from falling off his bike. The same eyes, the same mouth that used to whisper, Don’t tell Dad, okay? Back then, that smile was pure. I would have forgiven him anything. And I had. Every lie, every failure, every selfish decision. Because mothers always forgive. Until they can’t.

My hand drifted into my purse and brushed against the folded paper there—Vada’s last thank-you note, written the year I bought them the condo. You gave us a home, Mom. I’ll take good care of him, I promise. I could still see her handwriting, small and neat, the kind that belonged to someone who tried to keep her world in order even as it slipped through her fingers.

A distant alarm went off somewhere down the hall, followed by hurried footsteps. I turned toward the sound, heart jumping, but it passed, swallowed by another wing. Everything settled back into that awful, waiting stillness.

That was when the image of the SUV flashed in my mind again—the open windows, the music, his laughter—and something inside me crystallized. I had spent years believing discipline and kindness could fix anyone. That if you just guided someone long enough, they’d find their way back to decency. But what if decency wasn’t something you could teach? What if, somewhere along the way, I’d raised a man who mistook love for weakness?

I felt my phone buzz again. Another message from him. Mom, she’s in bad shape. I’m trying to stay strong. Please don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted.

The corner of my mouth twitched, not in amusement, but in disbelief. The audacity of it. The precision with which he crafted his lies. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, wanting to type something—anything—but no words felt big enough. No curse, no plea, no explanation could bridge the distance between the truth and his deception.

So I put the phone away.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard my late husband’s voice. Calm, steady, pragmatic. You can’t fix what refuses to see it’s broken, Margaret. Sometimes the only way to teach someone is to let them feel the weight of their own choices.

I rose from the chair, steadier than before. Each movement felt deliberate, purposeful. I walked through the lobby again, past the vending machine, past the security desk, until I stood outside in the cooling air. Streetlights painted everything gold. Cars hissed past on wet pavement. The world was still moving, indifferent to my private storm.

I reached into my purse, found my phone again, and this time, I didn’t hesitate.

When the dispatcher’s voice came through the line, calm and practiced, I spoke slowly, clearly, as though reciting something memorized. “Yes. I’d like to report a stolen vehicle.”

The words came easily. They didn’t even sound like mine.

“What’s the make and model?” the dispatcher asked.

“Midnight blue SUV,” I said. “2023. License number…” I read it off by heart. I could see it even now, gleaming under the hospital lights as it sped past.

“Where was it last seen?”

I looked toward the city skyline, where the night was blooming with noise and music. “Downtown,” I said quietly. “Near the clubs.”

There was a pause. “And your relation to the owner?”

I smiled, though no one could see it. “I’m his mother.”

The dispatcher’s tone softened. “Ma’am, are you safe right now?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

When I ended the call, I stood there a moment longer, listening to the hum of the city. The decision settled over me like a second skin. I wasn’t trembling anymore.

In the ICU, machines continued their patient rhythm, keeping Vada tethered to the world. Somewhere across town, my son laughed inside a stolen car. And in the space between those two realities, something irreversible had shifted.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like a mother begging for her child to do better.

I felt like a woman who finally understood what had to be done.

And as the city lights flickered against the hospital windows, I knew this night would be the line neither of us could ever cross back over.

Continue below

 

 

 

 

I flew down to my son’s place without giving him a heads up and found my daughter-in-law dying alone in the ICU. Meanwhile, my son was cruising around town with some girls in the car I had bought him. I silently called the police and reported the car stolen.

 2 days later, when they released him, he crawled back to me on his knees, only to find out I had signed everything over to his wife. Greetings, dear friends. Before I open the doors to my life and share this difficult story with you, I want to ask for a small favor. Please subscribe to the channel and hit that like button. It helps stories like this be heard.

 And drop a comment letting me know which state or city you’re listening from. It would warm my heart to know how far my voice has traveled. Get comfortable. Happy listening. The airport greeted me with a hustle, the smell of roasted coffee, and the weight of other people’s expectations. But I didn’t feel the joy of reunion that usually embraces mothers flying in to see their children.

 Inside, somewhere beneath my ribs, a heavy, icy knot of anxiety turned over. It was this very feeling that forced me, a disciplined woman used to planning everything a month in advance to drop everything, buy a ticket for the next flight, and fly halfway across the country without a word of warning.

 In the tote bag slung over my shoulder lay two glass jars of homemade elderberry preserves, tart, dark, and healing, the kind my son Sterling loved as a child back in Chicago. Next to the jars was a soft, plush teddy bear. Foolish perhaps. Vada, my daughter-in-law, wasn’t even pregnant as far as I knew.

 But in our last conversation, her voice sounded so thin, so fractured that I just wanted to bring her something warm, something childlike and comforting. I walked out of the terminal and inhaled the air of this southern city. It felt thick and humid compared to our sharp northern winds. The phone in my coat pocket remained silent.

 I had been calling Sterling for 3 days straight. The rings were long and dragging, but no one answered. Vada had also dropped off the radar a week ago. You can’t fool a mother’s heart, the old folks say. I always thought it was just a poetic phrase until I felt that cold sting of fear myself. The Uber took me to their neighborhood in about 40 minutes. The building I saw through the window looked monumental and secure.

 A historic brick pre-war structure with high ceilings and a spacious courtyard. I bought this condo for them 3 years ago, right after the wedding. I wanted the young couple to have the head start I never had, so they wouldn’t know what it meant to count pennies until payday or live in a damp, cramped apartment.

 I thought a foundation of brick and money would guarantee their happiness. Lord, how wrong I was. Stepping off the elevator on the third floor, I froze at the door. It was a jar, not wide open, but just enough as if someone had left in a rush and forgot to pull it shut until it clicked.

 I pushed the heavy door with my shoulder and stepped inside. A stale, heavy stench hit me instantly. It didn’t smell like home or the peach cobbler Vad loved to bake. It smelled like stale tobacco smoke and something sour, like wine that had turned to vinegar. Sterling swore to me he had quit smoking a year ago.

 Mama, it’s bad for you and it ain’t the style anymore, he’d said with that charming smile of his. The one that could always hustle anything out of me. Boots were scattered in the hallway. One stood upright. The other had been kicked against the coat rack, leaving a scuff mark on the cream colored wallpaper. I walked into the kitchen, trying to step softly, though I didn’t know who I was afraid of waking.

 A mountain of unwashed dishes towered on the table alongside dried up pizza crusts, empty bottles of expensive cognac, and right on the edge, a stack of unpaid utility bills. Pink and white envelopes that no one had even opened. But that wasn’t the scariest part. Next to the bills sat a small box of medication, heart drops, and blood pressure pills that the doctor had prescribed to Veta 6 months ago.

 The package was sealed. The layer of dust on it spoke louder than any scream. It hadn’t been touched in a long time. “Who are you looking for?” A raspy voice croked from behind me. I jumped and turned around. A neighbor stood in the doorway, an elderly woman in a faded house coat, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and pity. “I’m Sterling’s mother,” I said.

 My voice was steady, but inside everything was shrinking. Where are they? Where is Vad? The neighbor pursed her lips and shook her head. Oh honey, I don’t know where your Sterling is. Out running the street somewhere, I reckon. The music was booming in here till morning 3 days ago. But your girl Vada, the ambulance took her. When? I exhaled. 2 or 3 days ago. They carried her out on a stretcher.

 She didn’t look conscious. Thin as a shadow. Nobody’s been back since. The apartment’s just been sitting open. I was about to call the police. The world tilted. I don’t remember walking out of the building. I don’t remember hailing a cab. Only one thought pulsed in my head. City General Hospital. That was the nearest trauma center where they took all emergency cases.

 The ER waiting room smelled of bleach and trouble. People in scrubs flashed before my eyes like white blurs. I, usually composed and polite, plowed through, demanding the admission list. The last name, Jefferson, Vader’s married name, was found in the ICU log.

 The intensive care unit met me with silence, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of machines. They didn’t want to let me in, but my presence, the look of a mother who would tear down any wall, forced the nurse to call the doctor. Dr. Dr. Dubois came out to meet me, a tall man with tired eyes. He took off his glasses and wiped them on the edge of his coat, studying me.

 “You the mother?” he asked dryly. “Mother-in-law, where is she? What’s wrong with her?” “Pneonia,” he stated clearly. “Bilateral, advanced, but that’s half the trouble. The body is exhausted. Extreme dehydration and distrophe. It looks like she hasn’t eaten a proper meal in two weeks and lay with a fever of 104 for at least 5 days without any help.

 If the neighbors hadn’t called 911 when they heard her fall, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I listened and every word dropped into my soul like a stone into a well, didn’t eat, didn’t drink, lay alone. Where was my son? Where was the husband who took a vow to be there in sickness and in health? Can I see her? I asked quietly for a minute.

 She’s in a medicallyinduced coma on a ventilator. I walked into the room. Veta lay on the high bed entangled in tubes and wires. Her face was wider than the pillow. Her cheekbones were so sharp it looked like they might tear through her skin. She had always been petite, but now she looked transparent. This wasn’t just an illness. This was a slow murder by indifference. I couldn’t breathe.

 The air in the room thickened, pressing on my chest. I needed to get out to inhale the cool outside air before I screamed right there. I nodded to the doctor and not feeling my legs, walked to the exit. I stopped on the hospital steps. The evening city was lighting up. Cars rushed by.

 People were hurrying about their business, unaware that a young woman was dying behind these walls. And then I saw him. Screeching tires. A massive SUV flew around the corner. The metallic midnight blue paint sparkled under the street lights, blinding my eyes.

 This car, luxurious, powerful, the safest in its class, I had given to Sterling a month ago for his birthday. For the family, mama, to drive the future kids around, he had said back then. The windows were rolled down. Deafening club music poured from the cabin, rattling the glass in the hospital windows. My son was behind the wheel. He was laughing, head thrown back, shouting something to his passengers.

 And the passengers were two young women shrieking with delight, leaning out the windows and waving at passers by. Sterling didn’t look at the hospital. He didn’t even turn his head toward the windows where his wife was fighting for every breath. He was the king of the world, the owner of an expensive toy I had bought him.

 The car roared past, blasting me with wind and the smell of burnt rubber, and disappeared around the turn toward downtown, where the nightclub lights burned. I stood there, stunned. Anger hadn’t arrived yet. There was only icy numbness. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. A message from Sterling lit up the screen, the first one in 3 days.

 The text read, “Hey, Ma, can’t talk. I’m at the hospital with Veta right now. It’s really serious. The doctors are fighting. I haven’t left her side. Pray for us. I stared at the glowing screen and the letters blurred, but not from tears. The tears evaporated instantly, burned away by a cold heat rising from the very depths of my being. “Pray for us,” he wrote.

 The man who had just sped past his dying wife with loud music and strange women was asking me for prayers. In that moment, something inside me snapped with a loud crack. It wasn’t the sound of a broken heart. No, it was the sound of the patient’s string snapping, the one that had held my blind motherly love for years.

 I realized that before me was not just an immature boy, confused about life. Before me was a monster, calculating, cynical, and absolutely certain of his impunity. I didn’t scream. I didn’t call him back to vent my rage, to hear his pathetic excuses or drunken laughter. Screaming is the weapon of the weak. Screaming is an admission of pain. And I didn’t feel pain.

 I felt clarity, a terrifying crystal clarity I hadn’t felt even during the hardest years of running my logistics business back when I had to fire thieves or stand my ground against racketeers in the ‘9s. I slowly turned around and walked back into the hospital building. The lobby was quiet, only the coffee machine hummed.

 I approached the receptionist, a young girl writing something in a log book. “Miss, may I have some water?” I asked. My voice sounded steady, scarily calm, even to myself. She handed me a plastic cup. I sat on a hard chair in the corner of the waiting room. I needed 10 minutes. 10 minutes to bury my son. The son I remembered with scraped knees with his first clumsy drawing for Mother’s Day with his promises to be my rock. That Sterling no longer existed.

 All that remained was this stranger with my eyes who thought the world revolved around him. I took a sip of water. It was warm and tasted like plastic. The picture came together in my head. The car, that midnight blue Escalade. I bought it. I chose the trim. I paid for the insurance and thank God I registered it in my name.

 Sterling had pouted then pushed out his lip. Mama, don’t you trust me? I had joked it off, said insurance was cheaper for a senior citizen. Now that joke was my ace in the hole. He thought the car was an extension of his ego, but on paper it was my property, which meant he drove it only with my silent consent.

 consent that ended the exact second I saw his laughing face in the window. I took out my phone and without a single muscle twitching in my face, dialed 911. “911, what is your emergency?” a tired dispatcher answered. “Good evening. I want to report a stolen vehicle,” I said clearly, making sure every word landed heavy as a gavvel.

 “State your name and the vehicle information.” I gave my name, the make of the car, the license plate number. Where and when did the theft occur? I just saw my vehicle, a blue Escalade moving down Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, heading toward the majestic lights of the entertainment district. An unauthorized male is behind the wheel. Do you know the thief? I closed my eyes for a second.

 Vader’s face, tangled in tubes, floated before me. No, I lied. Or maybe I told the truth. Was this person my son? I suspect the driver is under the influence of alcohol. He was driving extremely aggressively, creating hazardous situations. There are passengers in the vehicle. Their lives may be in danger. I ask you to take urgent measures.

 Copy that. An APB has been issued to patrol units. Please hold. I hung up. The hand holding the phone was absolutely steady. No tremors, no doubts. I had just set the law on my own flesh and blood, and I didn’t feel an ounce of regret. But that wasn’t enough. The car was just metal. I needed to secure what mattered. I found Odora’s number in my contacts.

 My old friend, the sharpest attorney in the city, a woman of the old school who didn’t ask unnecessary questions when she heard the steel in my voice. It was late, but Odora answered after the second ring. Oilia, are you in town? Why didn’t you call? Hello, Odora. I’m here. Listen to me carefully.

 I need you to start drafting some documents right now, tonight. What documents, Oilia? Did something happen? You sound like you’re in a board meeting. Worse, Odora. Much worse. I need a deed of gift for the condo. The one where Sterling and Vad live. Got it. Transferring it to Sterling. You finally decided to give him the title. No, I cut her off. Not to Sterling. Tveda.

Silence hung on the line. Odora had known me for 30 years. She knew how I doted on that boy. Such a change of course could only mean a catastrophe. To Vada, she repeated slowly. Oilia, are you sure? That’s a serious step. That property is worth a fortune. I have never been more sure, Odora.

 And prepare a general power of attorney in my name to handle all matters related to that property. I want the papers ready for signing tomorrow morning. I’ll pay double your rate for the rush. I’ll get it done. Her voice turned all business. Come to my office at 8:00 a.m. We said goodbye. I remained sitting in the lobby, staring at the closed doors of the ICU. 20 minutes passed.

 Time stretched thick as tar. I imagined the patrol car with flashing lights pinning the blue SUV to the curb. How the loud music would die. how the smirk would slide off Sterling’s face. My phone rang sharply, slicing through the hospital silence. An unknown local number. Oilia Vance. The voice was strict official. Yes. Speaking.

This is officer Bradshaw. We’ve detained a vehicle matching your description on Peach Tree Street. Behind the wheel is a citizen sterling Vance. He is behaving belligerently and resisting arrest. In the background, I heard noise, a scuffle, my son’s distorted shout. You have no right. Call her. That’s my mother. She’ll explain everything.

 Miss Vance, the officer continued, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. The suspect claims he is your son and that you gave him the car. Is this true? If you confirm, we will have to release him with just a citation for DUI. I took a deep breath of the sterile hospital air, imagining Vader lying there behind the wall, alone in the darkness of her coma while he partied. “Officer,” I said in a tone that held no note of hesitation.

 “My son Sterling is currently in the ICU of City General Hospital. He is sitting by his dying wife’s bedside holding her hand. He is praying for her health and hasn’t left her side. The man you detained is a liar. I don’t know who he is or why he is hiding behind my name. A second of silence hung on the other end.

 The officer was processing the information. I understand, Miss Vance. We will proceed with the full extent of the law. Grand Theft Auto resisting arrest, fraud. Thank you. Thank you, officer. Do your job. I pressed the button to end the call. The screen went dark. I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. The woman looking back at me was a stranger, but I liked her. She was ready for war.

 I put the phone in my bag like holstering a revolver after a shot. Inside the silence still rang, the kind that comes after a deafening explosion. But there was no time for reflection. I had a goal, and that goal lay behind the wall, tangled in wires. The next 48 hours blurred into one endless gray day. I practically moved into the hospital, spoke with the chief of medicine, paid for a private room, and a roundthe-clock private nurse.

 Money, as always, opened doors that remained closed to mere mortals. I sat by Vad’s bed, holding her limp hand, and talked. I talked about the weather, about how beautiful the autumn leaves were back north, about the sweet potato pies we would bake when she got better. I filled the silence with words so that death wouldn’t dare enter the pause. Sterling sat in a holding cell during this time.

 I knew this because my phone periodically came alive, lighting up with unknown numbers from the jail. He was using his one phone call, but he wasn’t calling a lawyer. He was calling me. I didn’t pick up. I imagined him there, furious, not scared.

 He was probably pacing the cell like a tiger in a cage, telling his cellmates what a monstrous mistake this was. “My mama’s going to come down here. She’s going to tear this place up.” I could hear his imaginary voice. He was sure this was just a glitch in the system, a bureaucratic hell from which I, his almighty mama, would pluck him. Once he left a voicemail, I listened to it in the hallway, phone pressed to my ear.

 Mama, where are you? Why aren’t you answering? His voice cracked into a squeal. There’s some crazy nonsense happening. The cops say you reported it stolen. Are you out of your mind? Bring the papers for the car and the keys fast and tell them you made a mistake. I’m sitting here with bums. I smell mama.

 Not a word about Vad, not a question about how she was. Only I, me, mine. He was sure Vad was silent. That like a loyal dog, she was lying at home waiting for him, not daring to complain to her mother-in-law. He didn’t know his silent victim was balancing on the edge of life and death, and that her silence was more eloquent than any words. In between shifts at the bedside, I went to the apartment.

 I needed to find Vad’s ID to process the transfer to the private room. The apartment greeted me with the same smell of stagnation and betrayal. I started methodically going through things in their bedroom. In a dresser drawer, under a stack of neatly folded linens, I stumbled upon an old diary in a worn cover. It wasn’t just a notebook.

It was a chronicle of survival. I opened it at random. Vad’s handwriting, usually round and neat, was small and erratic here. March 12th, Sterling asked for money again. Said he needed it to maintain his status in front of partners. I gave him the last $400 I saved for the dentist. My tooth hurts unbearably, but he said if he didn’t have a new shirt, the deal would fall through and we’d be on the street. I flipped the page. April 20th. He screamed.

 Said the apartment is actually his. That his mother gave it to him and they just let me stay there. Said if I nag him about a job, he’ll kick me out. I’m scared. I have nowhere to go. Mom’s gone. Dad is far away. I have to endure it for the family. My vision went dark. He lied to her. He used my kindness as a club to beat this girl into submission. He convinced her she was nobody.

 Empty space in his kingdom. He wasn’t just stealing her money. He was stealing her dignity day by day, drop by drop. May 5th, he sold my gold ring, grandma’s ring, said he lost it. But I saw the pawn shop receipt in his pocket. With that money, he bought himself a watch. Said, “You just sit at home anyway. You don’t need jewelry, but I need to look presentable.” I closed the notebook.

 My hands were shaking, but now not from fear, but from a rage so concentrated it felt like it could burn through the paper. This wasn’t just selfishness. This was financial and psychological terror. He was methodically destroying her to elevate himself. I took the notebook with me.

 It was evidence, not for court, but for my conscience, so that when he came to me with the eyes of a beaten dog, I wouldn’t waver. Returning to the hospital, I sat at my post again. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor became the only music. I took Vader’s hand in mine. It was dry and hot. “You are not alone, baby girl,” I whispered.

 “Do you hear me? You are not alone anymore. I am here and I know everything. He won’t hurt you again. I promise.” Several more hours passed. Outside the window, the sky began to turn gray. Morning of the third day approached. I dozed off, sitting in the chair, head dropped on my chest. Suddenly, I felt a faint movement like a butterfly wing brushing my palm. I snapped my eyes open.

 Vada’s fingers resting in my hand twitch slightly. I froze, afraid to scare away the moment. Her eyelids fluttered, lifting slowly like a heavy curtain. Her gaze was cloudy, unfocused. She looked through me, through the ceiling, somewhere into the void. Then her eyes cleared a little and she saw me. There was no recognition in them, only fear, a primal, deep-seated fear.

Her lips moved under the mask. I leaned close to her face to hear. “Don’t let him in,” her voice rustled, quiet as dry leaves. “Don’t let him in.” “Who, honey? Who shouldn’t I let in?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. She squeezed my hand with unexpected strength. Terror splashed in her eyes.

 Sterling, she breathed out, and a tear rolled down her temple. He turned off the heat, said it was expensive. I’m cold. Don’t let him in. The monitors beeped more urgently. Her pulse spiked. The nurse was already running to us with a syringe. Sh. Sh. Vad, calm down. I stroked her head, feeling a wave of cold, murderous resolve rising inside me. No one will touch you. Sleep.

 He turned off the heat in winter in an apartment where his sick wife lay just to save a few bucks that he immediately blew on gas for his toy and cocktails for tramps. He was freezing her alive. I walked out of the room, leaving the doctors to work on Vad. My face had turned into a stone mask. There was no longer a mother. There was a judge. And the verdict had already been passed, final and without appeal.

 I stepped out of the hospital into the morning fog, feeling every step resonate in my head. But there was no fatigue. Liquid nitrogen flowed through my veins instead of blood. Vader’s words, “He turned off the heat, became the final drop that turned my grief into a mechanism of destruction.

” An Uber took me to Odora’s law office in 20 minutes. The city was just waking up. Street sweepers were clearing the sidewalks, unaware that someone’s world was collapsing. Today, Odora was waiting for me, just as she promised at Adonwa. Her office smelled of expensive coffee and old paper, the smell of stability and law.

 “You look terrible, Oilia,” she said instead of a greeting, looking over my rumpled coat and the dark circles under my eyes. “But your eyes are burning in a way that scares me.” Let’s get to business, Odora. I sat in the chair without taking off my coat. Are the papers ready? She silently slid a folder toward me.

 Deed of gift for the condo in the name of VA Jefferson. Everything as you asked, but Oilia, before you sign, I have to show you something. Odora pulled another folder from the safe, a thin blue one. Yesterday, when I was pulling the title abstract, I stumbled upon an interesting inquiry. Your son Sterling applied to a payday loan company a week ago, a very shady one, I must say.

 And I asked, feeling a new spring tighten inside. And as collateral for the loan, he provided copies of the documents for this very apartment. Oilia? Odora lowered her voice. There was a power of attorney, allegedly from you, giving him the right to mortgage the property. She opened the folder and showed me a photocopy.

 I looked at my signature. It was almost perfect. Almost. Only the tail of the O was a little longer than I usually write. It’s a forgery, I stated calmly. Crude, but for thugs, it would pass. Odora nodded. He was planning to borrow a huge sum, and if he couldn’t pay it back, and he wouldn’t have, judging by his credit history, which I also checked, some tough guys would have come to you asking you to vacate the premises.

 He planned to sell the roof over his wife’s and mother’s heads to cover gambling debts. We’re talking thousands, Oilia. He’s a gambler. I closed the folder. The puzzle was complete. That’s why he saved on heating and medicine for Veta. He didn’t need money for status. He needed it for the game. And when the money ran out, he decided to bet the apartment.

 My apartment. Veta’s life. Where’s the pen? I asked. Odora handed me a heavy Parker pen. I signed the deed with a sweeping heavy hand, three copies. With every stroke, I cut off a piece of the past where my beloved son Sterling existed. Now there was only Sterling, Vance, Fraudster, and Sadist.

 Send it for registration immediately, electronically, so the apartment is hers in an hour. We’ll do. Odora nodded, stamping the official seal. What about the car? I’ll handle the car myself. Leaving the notary, I dialed the dealership where I bought that cursed SUV. The manager, recognizing my voice, practically bowed over the phone. Alex, listen to me carefully. The car I bought last month is currently at the police impound lot.

 As the owner, I am authorizing you to pick it up with a tow truck. I’m sending the documents via courier right now. Of course, Miss Vance. Where should we deliver the vehicle? To service? No. To the trade-in department. I want to sell it immediately. Sell it? Genuine surprise rang in the manager’s voice. But it’s brand new. You’ll take a loss.

 I don’t care how much I lose. Sell it today for whatever price the wholesalers offer. Main condition. The money must not be transferred to my account. I will send you the details for the hospital’s charity fund, purpose of payment, treatment, and rehabilitation of Veta Jefferson. I I understand. We’ll get it done. I hung up. Now Sterling had nothing.

 No wheels, no housing, no mother’s purse. I had scorched the earth around him, leaving him naked on the ashes. My phone pinged again. A notification from the bank. The state filing fee had been paid. The apartment was going to VA. I returned to the hospital to give the doctors a copy of the payment receipt for the treatment. The money from the car sale would arrive by evening. But I wanted them to know resources exist. Spare nothing.

 As I was leaving the chief physician’s office, my phone came alive again. This time it wasn’t Sterling. It was an unknown woman calling. Hello. Is this Sterling’s mother? The voice was squeaky, young, and entitled. “Who is this?” I asked in an icy tone. “This is Candy. I was with Sterling in the car when those pigs arrested us.

” “Listen, lady, your son told me the whip was his, that he’s a big businessman, and now the cops are telling me the car is stolen.” “Are you running a family of con artists?” I chuckled. “Here they were, colleagues.” Candy, I said softly, almost sweetly. Sterling lied to you. He has no car. He has no business. And he has no apartment either. He lives off a librarian wife and a retired mother.

 What? The phone squealled. But but he promised me a trip to Miami. I’m afraid the only trip he’s going on is a bus ride to the unemployment office. I hung up and immediately another message arrived from Sterling. Mama, they released me. It was hell. I’m coming home. We need to talk seriously. You owe me an explanation for this circus.

 He was going home to an apartment that didn’t belong to him anymore. To a wife he almost killed. He still thought he was master of the situation. I checked my watch. 2 hours had passed since I gave the order to the dealer.

 At that moment, Sterling’s phone must have been on full volume because I imagined him standing on the steps of the police station, dirty, angry, reading the message Candy had just sent him. I didn’t see it, but I knew it would happen. Candi, judging by her voice, wasn’t a girl who forgave shattered dreams of Miami. And indeed, a minute later, Odora sent me a screenshot. She was monitoring Sterling’s social media.

 A post appeared on his wall from user Queen Candy. Yo ladies, don’t fall for this loser at Sterling Vance. The whip is his mama’s. Bro is broke and his own mom called the cops on him. Gh. Embarrassing. Don’t call me again, loser. I put the phone away. Checkmate. Son, you wanted the high life. You got the fame.

 Now, let’s see how you handle it. I got up and walked to the exit. I needed to meet him not at home but at the hospital where the truth lay. The truth he was running from so hard. I took a position in the lobby right across from the elevators.

 In my hands was a book, a volume of Baldwin I had grabbed from Vad’s house, but the lines jumped before my eyes, refusing to form meaning. I wasn’t reading. I was waiting. About 40 minutes passed before the elevator door slid open and he stepped out. Sterling looked pathetic. His designer shirt was wrinkled and stained with something brown. His hair was standing on end, and dark shadows lay under his eyes.

 He was limping on his left leg, probably the result of a warm welcome from cellmates or the police during the arrest. But even in this state, he tried to carry himself with pride. He looked around, searching not for a doctor, not for his wife, but for me. Seeing me in the chair, he headed straight for me.

 his face twisted into a grimace that was supposed to portray righteous anger, but looked more like the tantrum of a spoiled child. “Finally,” he barked across the corridor, startling a dozing nurse. “Mama, what did you do? Do you realize what you’ve done? They kept me in the tank for 2 days with bums.” He loomed over me, expecting me to jump up as usual, start gasping, apologizing, shoving money at him, and patting his head. But I didn’t move.

 I slowly closed the book, placed it on my knees, and raised my eyes to him. My gaze was dry and calm as a desert. “Hello, Sterling,” I said quietly. “You smell. Go take a shower before you shout.” He was taken aback. For a second, his mouth opened like a fish thrown on the shore. “Smell?” he squealled, lowering his voice only because a doctor walked by.

 “Mama, are you out of your mind? You reported me to the police. You said I stole the car. My car. You embarrassed me in front of my friends. In front of Candy. Do you know what she wrote to me? I know. I nodded. She wrote the truth. You’re a loser, Sterling. The word hit him harder than a slap. He recoiled. His face broke out in red blotches.

 How dare you? I I He was choking with indignation. I’m going to Veta right now. She’ll confirm I took the car with her consent. She’ll tell them all and you’ll regret treating me like this. Where are the keys? Give me the keys to the car. I have to go. I have business. You have no business, Sterling? I spoke measuredly like I was driving nails.

 And you have no car? What do you mean no? He laughed nervously. Did you hide it? Come on, Ma. Lesson learned. Give me the keys. I really need to go. I promised the guys. The car is sold. I interrupted him. An hour ago, the dealer picked it up from the impound. The money has already been transferred to the clinic’s account. What? His eyes bugged out.

 You had no right. That was my gift. That was my property. On paper, I disposed of it as I saw fit. The money will go to pull your wife back from the dead, from the grave you drove her into. He froze for the first time. Not anger, but fear flickered in his eyes. But it wasn’t fear for Vad. It was the fear of a beast cornered and stripped of its fangs.

 “You You’re lying,” he wheezed. “You couldn’t. You love me. I’m your son.” “I do.” I agreed. And it was true, bitter as wormwood. “But I will no longer sponsor you. You are a grown man, Sterling, 35 years old. You have no job. You have no car. And by the way, I paused, savoring the moment of truth. You have no home.

 What do you mean? He pald so much the blotches on his face stood out even brighter. The apartment, the condo now belongs to Vad officially. I signed the deed of gift this morning. You are no longer the master there. You aren’t even on the lease. He stood swaying as if the floor was moving under his feet. All his arrogance, all his fake bravado fell away like husks.

 All that remained was a small, scared, greedy little man. You couldn’t, he muttered. You’re bluffing. You just want to scare me. I’m going to Va right now. She loves me. She’ll cancel it. She’ll sign whatever I say. He spun around and darted toward the ICU doors. “Vad,” he screamed, throwing the door open.

 “Vad, tell her.” I didn’t even stand up. I knew what would happen next. Sterling only managed two steps into the room. From behind the privacy screen, a figure emerged. It wasn’t a doctor. It was a man in the uniform of a private security firm, broad-shouldered with a stone face.

 I had hired him 2 hours ago with a single instruction. Protect the patient from any male visitors except medical staff. The guard silently, without unnecessary movement, blocked Sterling’s path. His hand, the size of a shovel, landed on my son’s chest. “Unauthorized entry prohibited,” he rumbled in a base voice.

 “Get your hands off me!” Sterling squealled, trying to get around the mountain of muscle. “I’m the husband. I have rights. Vad, Vad, wake up.” Vad lay motionless, but the heart monitor reacted to the shout. The pulse curve jerked upward. You are disturbing a critical patient. The guard gently but firmly began to push Sterling back into the corridor.

“Leave or I will be forced to use physical force.” Sterling resisted, his boots slid on the lenolium. “Mama,” he yelled, turning back to me. “Tell him she’s my wife.” I sat motionless, gripping the book. “Take him away,” I said quietly. But the guard heard. Sterling was shoved into the corridor.

 The ward door slammed in his face, cutting him off from the victim he was used to considering his property. He was left standing in the empty hallway, disheveled, humiliated, stripped of all his toys. He looked at me. In his eyes, I saw hatred. Pure, unclouded hatred. And in that moment, I realized the war had just begun. He wouldn’t retreat that easily. He would play for pity.

 He would crawl. He would lie. And he started right then. His face changed. The mask of anger was replaced by a mask of suffering. He sniffled and took a step toward me. Mama. His voice trembled, becoming pitiful, like in childhood when he broke a vase. Ma, I’m sorry. I’m a fool. I got confused. Help me. They’re going to kill me.

 I knew who he was talking about. the people he promised money from the sale of the apartment. But nothing stirred in me except disgust. “Let’s go outside,” I said, standing up. “There are people here. We’ll talk where you won’t disturb the sick.” I headed for the exit, knowing he would follow. He had no choice. I was his last hope, a hope I intended to shatter completely.

We walked into a long hospital corridor away from the nurse’s station and Vader’s room. It was empty here. Only a fluorescent light flickered, making an unpleasant buzzing sound. Sterling scured after me like a beaten dog, but I could feel his tension with my back. He was still looking for a loophole, still calculating options.

 I stopped by a window overlooking the parking lot. where his blue SUV once stood, there was now an empty space. I turned to him. Well, I said, I’m listening. Sterling looked around to make sure there were no witnesses and then collapsed to his knees. It was so theatrical, so rehearsed that I felt nauseous. He grabbed the hem of my coat with dirty fingers, looking up into my eyes.

 Mama, mommy, forgive me, he wailed, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Real or not, I couldn’t tell anymore. I didn’t mean to. I’ll fix everything. I swear I’ll never drive drunk again. I’ll find a job. Just put everything back how it was. Give the apartment back. He sobbed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. You don’t understand, Ma. I have problems.

 Serious problems. I owe money. A lot of money. If I don’t pay, they won’t just beat me up. They’ll me. Mama, I’m your son. Your blood. Would you let them kill me? He spoke fast, choking on words, trying to crush me with pity, fear, guilt. And those girls in the car, he continued, seeing I was silent. Just colleagues. We were coming from a corporate party. I was just giving them a ride. I love Veta.

 I can’t live without her. I sat here, prayed. Mama, believe me. I looked down at him, at his shaking hands, at his pathetic posture, and I didn’t see a son. I saw a parasite that had been sucking the life out of us for years. “Stand up,” I said quietly. “I won’t stand up until you forgive me,” he howled louder, hoping some staff member would come out and see this scene of the prodigal son’s repentance.

 “Mama, I’ll do anything for you. I’ll take care of Vada. I’ll carry her in my arms. Just don’t abandon me. Don’t take my home. Stand up. My voice whipped him like a slap. He flinched and slowly rose, still sniffling. You say you are my blood? I asked, looking him straight in the eye. Yes, that is true. And it is my greatest shame, my most terrible mistake.

 I raised you. I gave you everything. But I didn’t teach you to be a human being. I opened my bag and took out a folded sheet of paper. It was a copy of the deed with the registar’s stamp that Odora had forwarded to me. Look. I unfolded the paper in front of his face. See this stamp? The apartment is no longer yours and never will be.

 It belongs to Vad solely. Sterling stared at the document. His eyes darted across the lines, pupils dilated. But but how? He mumbled. What if if she Well, he didn’t finish, but I understood. If she dies, that’s what he was thinking. If Vader dies, he as the legal husband inherits everything, the apartment, the money, the things.

 He was already burying her in his thoughts and calculating the profit. “Thinking about inheritance?” I asked, and my voice became so cold, it felt like the temperature in the corridor dropped 10°. Don’t get your hopes up. I took out a second document. It was a will. My will, which I had rewritten this morning at Odora’s office while waiting for the apartment paperwork.

Read. I pointed a finger at the highlighted paragraph. Sterling read aloud, stumbling, all my property, movable and immovable, as well as funds and accounts. I bequeath to the hope for paws animal shelter. He looked up at me full of genuine horror. You You’re joking.

 Cats, mama, are you crazy? You’re giving everything to cats and leaving your own son on the street? Yes, I answered calmly. Cats are at least grateful when you feed them, and they don’t turn off the heating on the sick. You wouldn’t dare. You wouldn’t dare? He screamed, forgetting the role of the repentant sinner. His face twisted with malice. I’ll contest this.

 I’ll prove you’re incompetent, that you’re an old scenile woman. The court will be on my side. I am the only heir. Try it, I smirked. I have a certificate from a psychiatrist. I got it today. I am of sound mind and memory, but you, son, have problems. What problems? He sprayed saliva. Locks, I said simply. Tonight, the apartment will have new locks and a security system.

 If you try to enter without Vad’s invitation, and I’m sure she won’t invite you. A squad will arrive, and this time they won’t let you out in 2 days. Sterling froze. He realized the scale of the disaster. He had no home. He had no car. He had no money. And he had no future inheritance. And the debts, he whispered. And in that whisper was real terror.

 Mama, they’ll kill me. They really will. Give me at least money to cover the debt. I’ll leave. I’ll disappear. You won’t see me again. Just give me money. No. I cut him off. You’re a big boy, Sterling. You brewed this tea. Now you drink it. Go work as a loader, a janitor, a cab driver. Oh, wait. You’ll lose your license. That means a foot courier. Work it off.

 You You monster, he spat in my face. You’re not a mother. You’re a viper. I hate you. I hope you die with your Veta. Feeling is mutual, son. I said, putting the documents back in my bag. Now leave. Security is coming. At the end of the hall, two guards indeed appeared, likely called by someone disturbed by the noise.

 Sterling looked at them, then at me. Panic darted in his eyes. “This isn’t over,” he shouted, backing away. “You’ll regret this. I’ll find a way. The apartment is mine. Mine.” He turned and ran to the stairs, nearly knocking over a nurse with a tray. I watched him go. I didn’t pity him.

 I pied the time, the strength, and the love I had wasted growing this weed. But it was too early to relax. He was cornered, and rats in a corner jump at the throat. He didn’t just run away. He ran to the apartment. I knew it. He would try to get in before the locks were changed. He would try to carry out everything valuable.

 Appliances, VA’s jewelry, maybe even furniture. I took out my phone and dialed Odora. Odora, he’s on his way. Are the locksmiths there? They’re working, Oilia. Police are here, too. I asked an officer to supervise the process. Showed him the property deeds. Good. He’s running there. Warned them. He’s furious. Don’t worry. Odora’s voice was calm. We’ll meet him.

 I hung up and returned to the nurse’s station. I needed to make sure Vad was okay after this visit, but a new feeling was already maturing inside me. A feeling of liberation. I had cut off a rotten branch. Now the tree would breathe easier. All that remained was to protect what could still be saved. Sterling, as I predicted, didn’t go to the bus station or to friends.

 Choking with rage and fear, he raced to the only place he still considered his, the apartment. I didn’t see it with my own eyes, but Odora told me everything in detail later, and the picture stood before my gaze as vividly as if I were watching a movie. He flew into the lobby, skipping steps, ignoring the elevator. One thought must have been pounding in his head. Make it in time.

Make it in time to grab the laptop, the plasma TV, the stash, if there was one, maybe even documents to blackmail us later. He reached the third floor, already pulling out his keyring, but froze in front of the door. The door was wide open. Two workers in overalls stood in the hallway.

 One was drilling out the old lock cylinder and the second was unpacking a box with a new expensive alarm system. Standing next to them, arms crossed, was Odora, unshakable as a rock. And a little further away, leaning against the wall, two police officers looked bored. The very same ones who had processed his arrest for the theft. Fate, it seems, has a peculiar sense of humor.

 What is going on here? Sterling yelled, bursting into the hallway. Get out. This is my apartment. I’m the owner. The worker with the drill didn’t even turn around, continuing to buzz. Odora slowly raised her eyes over her glasses. Citizen Vance, she pronounced officially. Leave the premises. You no longer reside here.

 Who are you? He shrieked, trying to squeeze past her into the living room. I’m registered here. I live here. My mother bought this. Your mother bought it. and your mother gifted this apartment to Miss Vita Jefferson. Odora paried calmly, pulling a fresh extract from the folder. Here is the document. Owner Veta Jefferson. And here is a certificate from the records office.

 You were dregistered this morning by the owner’s request based on loss of right of use. Deregistered? Sterling turned purple. Without me? That’s illegal. I’ll file a complaint. He tried to dash into the bedroom, apparently hoping to get to the safe, but one of the officers blocked his path.

 “Citizen, hold it,” the sergeant said lazily but authoritatively. “You were told in plain English, this is someone else’s property. You are nobody here. Do you know who I am?” Sterling switched to his favorite, but now useless ace. “I have connections. I’m making a call right now.” He feverishly pulled out his phone and started poking at the screen.

 Odora and the police silently watched this spectacle. Hello, Doney. D bro, help me out. It’s total lawlessness here. My mom went crazy. Cops are pressing me. Hello. Hello. D Money apparently hung up or blocked him after the news about the car theft. Sterling dialed another number. Sergio, Sergio, it’s Sterling. Need guys urgently. Pull up to the crib. What do you mean you can’t? What do you mean you heard? That’s all lies, Sergio.

 He lowered the phone. No one wanted to stick their neck out for a loser who no longer had a rich mommy behind him. His friends were friends of his money and his car. Without them, he was empty space to them. “Leave,” Sterling, Odora said, and a note of fatigue sounded in her voice. “Don’t make it worse. There’s nothing for you here.

” “My stuff,” he howled. My stuff is in there. Clothes, computer. I have the right to take my stuff. Your things are packed. Odora nodded. She signaled the worker. And he brought out a large gym bag and a couple of black trash bags stuffed tight with something soft. Here, clothes, shoes, hygiene products. The laptop stays.

 It was bought on credit in Veta’s name, and the credit isn’t paid off. So that is her property. The TV, too. and the gaming console. The worker threw the bag and sacks at Sterling’s feet. Take them and go. Sterling stood looking at these pathetic bundles. His whole life fit into two trash bags. You You’ll regret this, he hissed. You’ll all regret this.

I won’t leave it like this. Citizen, exit. The officer placed a hand on his holster. The gesture was unambiguous. Sterling grabbed the bag, kicked one of the sacks, and cursing through his teeth, tumbled out onto the stairwell. The door slammed shut behind him. The new lock clicked. That sound was the final period.

 He went down to the street. It was evening. A cold wind chased fallen leaves across the asphalt. Sterling stood by the entrance where just yesterday he parked his luxury car and didn’t know where to go. Couldn’t go to the girl’s place, they dumped him. couldn’t go to friends, no money for rent.

 He looked up at the windows on the third floor. A light was on there, a warm, cozy light that was now unreachable for him. He realized he had been crossed out, not just kicked out, but erased like a dirty stain. With trembling hands, he took out his wallet. There lay a card, a gold card linked to my account, which he loved to flash in restaurants. hotel, he thought.

 I’ll get a room at the plaza, sleep it off, and come up with something in the morning. Mom will cool down. She always cools down. He dragged his bundles to the nearest ATM glowing in the window of a 24-hour store across the street. Inserted the card, entered the PIN, requested the balance.

 The screen displayed card service suspended by bank. Card retained. The ATM wored and swallowed the plastic. Sterling stared blankly at the black slot where his last hope had disappeared. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. Give it back.” He punched the screen. Then again, “Give back the card.” Passers by shied away from him.

 A man with a dog stopped and threatened to call the police. Sterling slid down the wall of the store onto the dirty concrete. He sat surrounded by his trash bags without a dime in his pocket, without a phone. The battery died on the last call to Sergio in a strange cold city. At that moment, I sitting in the hospital received a notification from the bank. Attempted use of blocked supplementary card retained by device.

 I put the phone down and looked at Vad. She was sleeping, breathing more evenly now. The machines beeped rhythmically and calmly. The worst was over for her. But for Sterling, the real hell was just beginning. A hell he built himself brick by brick, lie by lie. And now he had to live in this house without windows or doors. 6 months passed.

 Autumn came into its own, painting the city in gold and crimson. But this cold was different. Clean, invigorating, promising not death, but rest before a new rebirth. I sat on the balcony of that same apartment. Now it didn’t smell of dampness and tobacco, but of freshly brewed tea with thyme and oil paints.

 Vada sat opposite, wrapped in a fluffy blanket the color of baked milk. She was still thin, and her movement sometimes showed the caution of a person who survived a long illness. But there was no longer that hunted emptiness in her eyes. Life shown there. She was painting. A watercolor landscape was blooming on the easel, the view from our window of the old park.

 “You know, Mom,” she said, dipping her brush into a cup of water. “She started calling me mom a month ago, and every time that word warmed my soul. I found a job at the central library. They opened a rare books department, and they need a restorer. The pay isn’t huge, but it’s enough for me, and the schedule is peaceful.

” “That’s wonderful, darling,” I smiled, sipping my tea. But don’t worry about money. You know, we have a cushion. I know. She put down the brush and looked at me seriously. But I want to do it myself. I want to feel that I can. After after all this, it’s important for me to know I’m not helpless. You are the strongest girl I know. I covered her hand with mine.

 We didn’t talk about Sterling. His name became taboo. As if by pronouncing it, we could summon an evil spirit back into our world. But his shadow had vanished from this apartment along with the old wallpaper we replaced in the first months. The walls were now a warm peach, the furniture light.

 We had scrubbed out even the memory of him. I sold my business up north. The logistics company I gave half my life to was now in the reliable hands of my deputies, and I received freedom and the means to simply live. I bought myself a small studio in the building next door to be close to Vader, but not to interfere with her building a new life.

 We became a family, a strange, broken, but real family, bound not by blood, but by scars. I’m going for a walk before the sun goes down, I said, standing up. Should I buy those cinnamon buns you like? Yes, please, Va smiled. And grab some milk. I walked out onto the street. The air was crisp and ringing.

 I walked down the familiar avenue, enjoying simple things, the rustle of leaves underfoot, the laughter of children on the playground, the feeling of peace I hadn’t known for many years while pulling the load of a strong woman and mother of a troubled son. My path lay past a car wash on the corner. Usually, I didn’t pay attention to the hustle there, but today my gaze snagged on a familiar silhouette.

 At the bay stood a huge black jeep covered in soapy foam, and bustling around it with a rag in his hands was a man in a soaked through gray jumpsuit. He was thin, stooped, with a wind burnt face etched with deep wrinkles. He scrubbed the fender of the car with a kind of frenzy, afraid to miss a spot. It was sterling. I slowed my pace but didn’t stop.

 He felt the gaze. He raised his head and saw me. For a second, time froze. We looked at each other across the strip of road separating us and the abyss of betrayal. In his eyes, I expected to see anger, pleading, maybe shame, but there was only fatigue. Infinite dull fatigue of a man fighting every day for a piece of bread.

 His hands, once manicured, used to holding only a glass or a steering wheel, were red from cold water and chemicals. He took a half step forward. His lips trembled as if he wanted to shout something. Mama, help. Forgive. I didn’t give him that chance. I didn’t turn away. I didn’t speed up. I just slid my gaze over him, like sliding over a lamp post or a random passer by and walked on. My face remained calm. Nothing trembled inside.

 No pity, no gloating, just fact. Everyone gets what they deserve. He wanted to live beautifully without working. Now he works dirty to survive. The balance is restored. I walked another block, feeling his gaze on my back. He didn’t run after me. Apparently, life had taught him something after all.

 Or maybe the car wash foreman just yelled at him, ordering him to work faster. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. A notification popped up on the screen. A message from an unknown number. I opened it. Ma, please, I can’t take it anymore. I understand everything. Give me a chance. Even just $10 for food, please. I looked at these lines.

 Ma, a word that was once the most precious to me now became just a set of letters. Chance. I gave him hundreds of chances. All his life, I gave him chances, and he spent them all on killing the faith in himself. My finger hovered over the reply button. What could I write? Endure it. God will provide. No. I tapped the settings icon, selected block contact, then delete chat.

 The screen blinked and cleared. The last thread connecting me to the past snapped. I put the phone in my pocket, inhaled the autumn air deeply, and smiled. Ahead was the bakery where they baked the most delicious cinnamon rolls for my daughter, my real daughter. I picked up my pace. I was expected at home.

 That is the story, my dear listeners. A story about love that can be blind and about an epiphany that sometimes costs too much. a story about how one woman found the strength to cut off her own flesh to save a stranger’s life that became family to her. And now I want to ask you, was Oilia right? Did she act cruy toward her only son? After all, a mother’s heart should forgive everything they tell us.

 Or is there a line beyond which forgiveness becomes an accessory to a crime? Would she have left him at the bottom if he hadn’t crossed that line with the heating and medicine? Many will say, “That’s her son. She should have helped, treated him, sent him to rehab, but not to the street.” And others will argue, “A grown man must answer for his actions. Stop babysitting.

” Did you like the story? And which city are you listening from? Let’s meet in the comments. If you liked the story, you can support me by sending a super thanks so I can keep bringing more stories like this. Thank you so much for your sweet support. I’m looking forward to your comments on the story. On the screen, you can see two new life stories that I highly recommend.

 There’s so much more on my channel. Don’t forget to subscribe. See you in the next life story. With love and respect.