My name is Richard. I worked my entire life, sacrificed everything I had, just to give my family a secure future. I never thought about myself—I only wanted my children to have the best life possible. But now, after all these years, I realize that I was nothing more than a tool, used and discarded.
My wife, Emily, and I divorced when our children were already grown. Our son, Daniel, had a job and was living with his girlfriend in a rented apartment in Boston. Our daughter, Sophie, was in university, staying in a student dorm in New York.
After the divorce, I had nowhere to go. The apartment we lived in belonged to Emily—it was an inheritance from her grandmother. So, I left. I returned to my childhood home, a small house in a quiet town in Vermont, where my elderly mother, Margaret, and my older brother, Thomas, still lived. Thomas had also been through a divorce and had never remarried. They welcomed me warmly, but I knew I couldn’t stay there forever.
That winter was one of the hardest of my life. I took on any job I could find—chopping wood, fixing roofs, even shoveling snow for neighbors. But that wasn’t the life I wanted. I had to help my children, and I couldn’t just become another burden for my mother and brother.
So, when spring arrived, I made a decision—I would go abroad to work.
I ended up in Canada, in a remote industrial town where they paid well for hard labor. The conditions were brutal—long hours, freezing winters, exhaustion that never went away. But I endured it. I endured it because every paycheck I earned went to my family.
When Daniel got married, I bought him an apartment in Boston. When Sophie finished university, I bought her a place in New York. I was happy knowing my children would never struggle the way I had.
I also sent large sums of money to my mother and brother, ensuring they lived comfortably. I never hesitated because I always believed I was investing in my future. The house in Vermont—our family home—was completely renovated with my money. A new heating system was installed, the roof was replaced, the kitchen was remodeled, and even a small guesthouse was built in the backyard.
Ten years passed.
Eventually, my body could no longer handle the work. My back ached constantly, my hands were stiff from years of labor. I knew it was time to return home.
When I finally came back, my mother and brother welcomed me with open arms. I thought I had done everything right—I had built security for my children, I had provided for my family, and now, I would finally have some peace.
I found a simple job as a janitor at a local school. The pay wasn’t great, but it was steady. Besides, I still had some savings left. I thought I was finally where I belonged.
Then, everything fell apart.
One day, while my mother and brother were out, I was looking for some old documents when I found a folder I had never seen before. Curious, I opened it.
What I saw made my heart stop.
Every legal document, every property deed—all of it was in my brother’s name. The house, the land, even the guesthouse—I didn’t own any of it.
I read through the documents again, hoping I had misunderstood. But the truth was clear. Legally, I had nothing.
When my mother and brother returned, I confronted them.
– What is this? – I asked, holding up the papers. – Why is everything in Thomas’s name?
My brother sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
– Richard, don’t worry about it. It’s just paperwork. You still live here. This is your home too.
But my mother didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on the floor, avoiding my gaze.
– Mom? Why? – My voice was shaking. – I worked for this house. I paid for everything. Why isn’t my name on anything?
She finally spoke, her voice quiet and tired.
– We thought… We thought you would build a life in Canada. Find someone there. Settle down. We didn’t think you would come back.
I felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me.
They never expected me to return.
Everything I had done, everything I had given—it had all been for nothing.
Now, I don’t know what to do.
Go back to Canada? I’m too old, too tired.
Move in with my children? They have their own lives. I don’t want to be a burden.
So here I stand, in front of the house I built, a house that legally isn’t mine, wondering where I belong.
And I have no answer.
