On my birthday, my son took me to a remote village, dropped me off near a dilapidated house, and said that from now on this was my home: But he had no idea what kind of revenge awaited him

I had just turned 65. A date I had awaited with both anxiety and hope — retirement. I had worked all my life, raised and brought up my son alone, invested everything in him: my strength, my health, and my love. I thought that now, in old age, I could finally rest a little. But it turned out that this very day became the beginning of my greatest trial.

On my birthday my son said we were going “on some errands.” I was even happy: it meant he remembered, that he wanted to spend time with me. We drove for a long time, and the farther we went from the city, the more uneasy I became. At last, the car stopped near a half-ruined, abandoned little house at the edge of a remote village.

— Mom, my son said calmly. — This is your new home.

At first, I didn’t understand what he meant.

— How is this my home? I asked in confusion. — But how am I supposed to live here? There’s no electricity, no water…

He shrugged his shoulders:

— That’s no longer my problem. I’ll send you part of your pension. After that — live however you want.

— Part? But that’s my money! — I looked at him, hoping it was some kind of stupid joke.

And then he said the words that pierced me:

— Did you forget that all these years you’ve been living off me? This is payment for my kindness.

I couldn’t hold back my tears. I begged him not to leave me here, told him I couldn’t survive alone. But he started shouting, cursing, and then suddenly turned around, got into the car, and drove away. I was left alone. On my birthday.

But my sad story doesn’t end there. A few days later my son returned. This time he spoke softly, almost tenderly, and I immediately understood. My revenge had worked 

Let me tell you what I did, and you can share too — maybe some of you have been in the same situation. 

— Mom, forgive me, I was wrong… Let’s go home, let’s live like before.

But I already knew — this wasn’t repentance. I saw the folder with documents in his hands. And he got straight to the point:

— I need your signatures. After Dad’s death, the apartment should be mine, you understand that. Sign the deed of gift, and I’ll take care of everything.

I listened to him, and inside I was boiling. For so many years he had made me believe I was a burden. So many times he had said that he was feeding and supporting me.

And now it turned out that the apartment, where he had lived all these years, was in my name. It was I who had given him a roof over his head. I — not him.

He pleaded, promised to take care of me, said he would bring me home, that he couldn’t survive without me. But I didn’t want that anymore. For the first time in my life I said a firm “no.”

— Pack your things, son, I said calmly. — And get out of my house.

He didn’t believe me. He shouted, tried to persuade me, grabbed my hands. But I was unyielding.