My name is Richard, and I’m 78 years old.
I never expected that I would be asking for advice from strangers, but here I am.
I need your opinion.
I spent most of my adult life as a single father.
My wife, Emma, passed away from cancer when our son, Michael (now 35), was just ten years old.
It was a hard time for both of us, but we made it through together.
From that point on, it was just the two of us against the world.
I tried to be both a mother and a father to him, working hard to provide him with every opportunity.
Michael grew up to be a good man.
Of course, he had his rebellious moments, but overall, he was kind, hardworking, and seemed like a smart guy.
He did well in school, got into university on a partial scholarship, and after graduation, he landed a good job in the finance sector.
I was always very proud of him, watching him grow into a successful adult.
We remained close, even after he moved out, regularly calling each other and having dinner together at least once a week.
“Dad,” he said, but he couldn’t even look me in the eye. “I’m sorry. I know I said it was a country house, but… this is better for you. Here, they’ll take care of you.”
“Take care of me? I don’t need anyone to take care of me! I’m perfectly independent. Why did you deceive me?”
“Dad, please.” Finally, Michael looked at me, his eyes full of pleading.
“Lately, you’ve been forgetting things. I’m worried about you living alone.”
“This house has excellent facilities, and there will always be someone nearby if you need help.”
“Forgetting things? Everyone forgets things sometimes!” I shouted, tears of anger streaming down my cheeks.
“That’s not true, Michael. Take me home right now.”
Michael shook his head and delivered the biggest news of the day.
“I can’t do that, Dad. I… I’ve already sold the house.”
I felt the ground slip from under my feet.
I knew I had agreed to sell the house, but I thought I had so much more time.
I wanted to meet the new owners, pick a good family, and explain exactly how to care for the old oak tree in the yard.
So what happened just over a year ago came as a shock to me.
It was a Tuesday evening when Michael arrived at my house, beaming with excitement.
“Dad,” he said, “I’ve got great news! I bought you a country house!”
“A house? Michael, what are you talking about?”
“It’s the perfect place, Dad. Peaceful, quiet, just what you need. You’ll love it!”
I was stunned.
Moving to a house so far away from here? It seemed like too big of a step.
“Michael, you didn’t have to do this. I’m fine here.”
But he insisted!
“No, Dad, you deserve this. The house you’re living in now is too big for just you. It’s time for a change. Trust me, it’ll be great for you.”
I have to admit, I was skeptical.
The house I lived in had been our family home for over 30 years.
It was where Michael grew up, where Emma and I built our life together.
But my son seemed so excited, so certain that this was the right move.
And I trusted him completely.
After all, we’d always been honest with each other.
So, despite my doubts, I agreed to move and sell my house.
Over the next few days, I packed up my belongings and prepared for the move while Michael handled most of the details.
He assured me everything was planned out.
He was so thoughtful that I set aside my concerns.
Finally, the day came for us to leave for the new house.
As we got into the car, Michael told me about all the amenities this new place offered.
But as we drove further away from the city, I started to feel like something was wrong.
The surroundings grew darker and less familiar.
It wasn’t the romantic countryside or rolling hills.
The friendly neighbors and vibrant city streets disappeared, replaced by empty, unappealing fields and even an abandoned farm.
The cottages nearby, the ones Michael knew I admired and had even considered buying when his mother was still with us, were cozy, welcoming, and surrounded by nature.
But this was entirely different.
“Michael,” I asked, “are you sure we’re going the right way? This doesn’t look like the countryside I had in mind.”
He assured me we were on the right track, but I noticed he avoided my gaze.
After about an hour of driving, we turned onto a long, winding driveway.
At the end stood a large, monotonous building.
My heart sank when I read the sign: “Sunset Haven.”
This wasn’t a country house.
It was a nursing home.
I turned to Michael, trying to hold myself together.
“What’s going on? How could you sell the house without my knowledge or consent?”
I demanded answers, but Michael avoided my eyes.
He mentioned that he had power of attorney and that he was doing this for my well-being.
After that, I stopped responding, and the next few hours were a blur.
I was registered and led to a small room with a narrow bed and a window overlooking a courtyard.
The walls were painted an unpleasant beige, and the air smelled of disinfectant and old age.
My old house had the comforting scent of cinnamon cookies my wife used to bake, and I never changed her décor.
But now this sad, clinical place had become my new home.
And there was nothing I could do about it.
I thought about Michael’s words as I spent the next days in shock and anger.
Had I truly become so forgetful?
Was this the right thing?
Had I made a mistake with Michael?
Had I been diagnosed with dementia or something similar?
I couldn’t imagine it, but the guilty and anxious look in Michael’s eyes made me start to doubt.
The staff at “Sunset Haven” were very kind and tried to engage me in activities to make me feel happy.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
Even if I had been forgetting things, why would Michael bring me here?
I was a devoted father. I always attended his school events.
I was always there first.
This was the greatest betrayal I’d ever experienced.
I know children don’t owe us anything, but… I thought I’d raised him better.
One afternoon, as I was still grappling with my emotions, I overheard a conversation that made the situation even worse.
I was sitting in the hallway, pretending to read a magazine, when I heard two nurses talking.
“It’s a shame about Mr. Johnson,” one of them said. “Did you hear about his son?”
“No, what happened?”
“They say he had big gambling debts. That’s why he sold his father’s house and placed him here.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Gambling debts? Was that the real reason for all of this?
Had my son simply betrayed me to cover up his own mistakes?
I was utterly shocked.
This son I had raised, this man I thought I knew better than myself, had abandoned me for his selfish goals.
I recalled every moment I had helped him out of tough situations, all the sacrifices I had made to give him a good life.
Fortunately, fate intervened in the form of an old friend.
Jack, a lawyer I’ve known for many years, came to visit his sister at the nursing home and was shocked to see me there.
When I told him what had happened, he was furious.
He promised to investigate whether Michael’s actions were legal. Now, my only hope lies with him.
