I stood silent, heart throbbing, watching my son and his wife shift uncomfortably. “We lied about what?” I asked.
My daughter-in-law crossed her arms. “We never needed space for a family. My mom needs a place. This works best for us.”
Her words sank deep. They hadn’t wanted to build a home—they wanted me out. I turned to my son. “Is this true?”
He glanced away. “We didn’t mean to hurt you. We just thought it was time you downsized.”
Downsized. Like I was an old piece of furniture. I swallowed the ache. “I didn’t give up my home so someone else could move in.”
She shrugged. “It’s our house now.” She was right. I’d signed it over. But her tone was colder than law—detached, erasing.
I looked at my son one last time. “Then there’s nothing left to say.”
And I walked out—before they could answer, before my heart broke louder than their silence.
