Some events change everything. For me and Andrew, that moment came the evening he showed up at our door with a suitcase and tear-streaked face. He was 17. His parents had kicked him out without explanation, as if he were a burden they could no longer bear. My mother didn’t hesitate — she took him in as if he were her own son.
We grew up together, studied side by side, and supported each other through everything. I worked in HR because I always wanted to understand people. Andrew became a brilliant programmer who helped me find logic where I only saw chaos. We were a real team. Until the day Andrew was diagnosed with bone cancer.
We fought together. I worked two jobs to support the home — the house that was legally in Andrew’s name. He never gave up hope that his parents would come around. But they never did. Not even to say goodbye.
A month after the funeral, the doorbell rang. I opened the door — and there they were. The same people who had abandoned him. His mother, Elena, with a forced smile:
— “You must feel lonely here.”
His father, Serge, added coldly:
— “This house should belong to family.”
The lawyer they brought confirmed: without a will, the estate would go to the closest relatives. But the house had been transferred to me a year earlier. I had been carrying everything on my shoulders.
— “If you want this house so badly,” I said calmly, “then repay me for four years of expenses.”
— “We don’t have that kind of money,” Serge snapped.
Without a word, I handed them a letter — the one Andrew had written to them. Elena read it, tears in her eyes:
> *”I forgive you. I hope one day you can forgive yourselves.”*
Their silence said it all. I spoke softly:
— “That’s not enough.”
They left without another word. I closed the door behind them — and for the first time in a long while, I felt at peace. This house isn’t just a place to live. It’s a symbol of trust, love, and memory. And I won’t give it to anyone.
