I never imagined the boy I raised as my own would turn his back on me.
Daniel was my heart, pride, and baby long before he became my grandson. When his parents packed up and left for Europe for employment, leaving him behind, I took him in without hesitation.
Even when my husband d.i.e.d, Daniel remained with me.
Then I got sick.
Daniel instantly became the adoring grandson. He prepared meals, handled my payments, and even held my hand when I was weak.
Then, one evening, he seated me at the kitchen table.
“Grandma,” he said gently, “we should put the house in my name. It’ll make things easier if… if anything happens.”
I was tired. I trusted him. So, I signed.
My condition improved gradually but steadily.
The cloud in my mind dissipated, my strength returned, and I was soon back to cooking my meals and tending to my garden as usual.
Daniel still lived with me, as he had always done. And I assumed, naively, that he meant what he said when he vowed to take care of me.
I made the wrong assumption.
He returned home one evening with his girlfriend, Chloe. I’d met her a few times—she was always nice but aloof.
“Grandma, you need to leave,” he said it casually as if he were reminding me to get milk.
He sighed, as if I were being difficult. “Chloe is moving in, and we need more room. You can go to a shelter or something.”
“Look,” he ranted, rubbing his temple. “You’re old and a burden. It’s not like you need a big house. Chloe and I want to start our life together, and we can’t do that with you here.”
And with that, he turned away, strolling back toward Chloe as if he hadn’t just broken me in half.
As I sat in the dim light, my fingers clenching on the table’s edge, I murmured, “You have no idea what you’ve just done, boy.”
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Morning arrived too fast, and Daniel barged into my room with a suitcase in hand.
“Here,” he said, dropping it onto the bed. “I packed your stuff.”
I wanted to shout. To cry. Instead, I stood. Slow. Steady. I picked up the suitcase and proceeded to the front door.
I stepped onto the porch, and Daniel closed the door behind me.
I was homeless.
I sighed, stood, and went next door to my neighbor’s house.
“Margaret?” I asked when she answered. “Can I use your phone?”
Then I called my lawyer.
After two rings, a deep voice responded. “Elliot speaking.”
“Alright, listen carefully. Do you remember that clause I had you include when you signed the house over?”
Elliot came over months ago to check in on me when I was still healing. Elliot had seen something that I hadn’t.
“You need protection,” he told me. “We’ll put in a contingency clause. If he ever forces you out or fails to provide you with a home, the deed reverts back to you. No loopholes.”
Elliot’s voice drew me back into the present. “I’ll file the paperwork today. Legally, the house is yours again. Give it a few hours, and you can walk right back in.”
By the time Daniel and Chloe returned from their happy dinner, the locks had already changed.
“The hell—?” Daniel mumbled before rattling the doorknob. When it wouldn’t move, he beat on the door. “Grandma! What the hell is this?!”
I laughed. “Oh, honey. You really should have read the fine print.”
A month later, I sold my house and relocated to a lovely retirement community. For once, I spent the money on myself, traveling, learning to paint, and making kind friends.
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In 1993, a deaf baby was left on my doorstep. I took on the role of his mother, but I had no idea what the future would hold for him.
