One mist-laden morning, I stepped into the garden and glimpsed an elderly woman sitting beneath the awning of my neighbour’s house. Hunched over the wooden bench, she seemed to have drifted asleep in the damp air. It struck me as odd—my neighbour had no living relatives, no children with her late husband, who had passed a year prior after a long illness. She was lonely, yes, but not yet old enough to despair. Acceptance was all she had left.
Curious, I crossed the path to my neighbour’s door to learn more. The old woman was polite but distant, her words sparse. In confidence, my neighbour confessed she was troubled. The woman’s son had disowned her—best not to pry.
Her life had been spent in the symphony halls. Her husband, a professor, lectured at university. She knew of his affairs with students but refused to tear the family apart. Silence was her armour.
Her son and her work consumed her days. She taught piano at home, filling the hours with scales and sonatas.
Years slipped by. Her son married, had a daughter—a granddaughter she adored. Then her husband left for another woman, though he never filed for divorce.
The son and his wife were busy building their empire, seldom visiting. Still, they left the child with her sometimes. But age came swiftly. When the husband was cast aside by his lover, he returned—only to find his wife withered, unappealing. He could barely stand her presence, always searching for someone younger.
By then, the son had a sprawling home. The father begged him to take the mother in. The son agreed—his daughter loved her grandmother. But the wife…
She refused to share her house with an old woman. At first, the son argued—it was his *mother*, after all—but the wife stood firm.
Fine. But only if the father transferred the deed of his flat to the granddaughter. What if he remarried? They’d lose it otherwise.
To appease his wife, the son struck the deal. The grandmother moved in—country air, open fields, family. The husband didn’t mourn long; another mistress soon took him. Divorce remained unsigned.
The wife’s scorn festered. She mocked the old woman, shouted, even raised a hand. The grandmother stayed silent. The granddaughter mimicked her mother’s cruelty. One day, the old woman snapped—demanded her son take her back home.
He called his father, who refused—he had moved on already. The daughter and wife insisted she go elsewhere.
So he drove her to a care home.
My neighbour, who’d known the woman for years, intervened. She offered her own spare room. The son promised money, asked her to call.
He left his mother there. The place was tidy. He swore he’d visit.
We shall see.
Such is the weight of discarded family—unwanted burdens tossed between hands. Where else could she go?
Life is a boomerang. What you throw returns.
Care for your parents.
Be kind.
