Six years ago, my mother left for another country in search of a better income, leaving my grandmother’s apartment empty. That’s when she came to me and my wife with an offer that seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—move in, take care of my aging grandmother, and in return, the apartment would eventually become ours. On top of that, part of my grandmother’s pension would help cover the cost of our efforts.
At the time, it felt like a blessing. My wife and I were young, just starting our family, struggling to afford our own place. Of course, taking care of an elderly person wasn’t easy, but the thought of having our own home outweighed any concerns. We agreed without hesitation.
At first, things were manageable. My grandmother required constant care—her health declined each year—but we handled it. Two years later, our daughter was born, adding more responsibilities to our already packed lives. I found myself juggling work, household chores, caring for my grandmother, and being a father. It was exhausting, but I held on, convinced that the apartment would one day belong to my family.
Financially, my mother was reliable—she sent money consistently, ensuring we never struggled too much. However, she rarely visited. Her life abroad kept her busy, which, in a way, worked for us. We had settled into our routine, used to managing everything on our own. Living just the three of us, even with the added burden of caregiving, seemed like a fair trade for a secure future.
Then, everything changed. My grandmother passed away. It happened just a month before my mother was due to return. I had no reason to doubt that, as we had agreed, the apartment would finally be ours. I had honored my side of the deal—sacrificed years of my life, my energy, my time.
But reality hit me like a slap in the face.
When my mother returned, she dropped a bombshell—I would not be getting the apartment. She had other plans. She had used the money she earned abroad to buy a place for my sister, who had been renting all this time. My mother decided that my grandmother’s apartment would remain in her name. Then, without warning, she moved in.
I was stunned.
For years, my wife and I had carried the weight of responsibility, balancing between raising a child and caring for a frail old woman. We endured financial struggles, exhaustion, and the never-ending stress, all with the hope that one day, we would have a place to call our own. And now, in the blink of an eye, it was all taken away.
My mother made herself comfortable, assuming authority over our home. She dictated everything—how things should be arranged, how we should live, what we should do. She treated us as if we were guests in our own space.
My wife was the first to break. She was furious, betrayed, humiliated. And I… I was lost. This was my mother, the woman who raised me. How could I stand against her? But at the same time, this was also my family—my wife, my daughter. I tried reasoning with my mother, explaining how unfair her decision was. She simply shrugged.
“You’re still living here, aren’t you? What’s the problem?”
The problem was everything.
Tensions rose. My wife began talking about leaving, about moving in with her parents, where we were welcomed with open arms. They offered us a place to stay, a chance to start fresh, away from this suffocating situation. But I hesitated. Leaving would mean abandoning years of sacrifice. It would mean walking away from what was supposed to be ours.
Most of all, it would mean the end of my marriage.
I felt like a cornered animal—betrayed, trapped, robbed of my future. My mother had taken everything I had given and discarded me like I was nothing. And in that moment, I realized that there was no compromise. There was no middle ground.
I had to choose.
A life under my mother’s rule, where my wife and child felt like strangers in their own home.
Or a future where we could finally live with dignity, free from manipulation, free from empty promises.
And so, I made my choice.
