I stood in the kitchen, the chef’s knife in my hand falling onto the cutting board in a steady rhythm, slicing the crisp green cucumber into uniform, thin pieces. The evening sun streamed in through the window, casting a warm golden glow on the countertop. Thump, thump, thump. The sound of the knife hitting the board was especially clear in the quiet kitchen.

Three years ago, after Arthur passed away, I moved in with my son, Julian. Leo had just been born and Clara’s maternity leave was ending. She had to go back to work and they really needed someone to help around the house. I still remember what Julian said when he came to pick me up: “Mom, we don’t feel right with you living all alone. Come live with us. You can help look after Leo, too.”

That phrase—you can help look after Leo, too—sounded a bit sharp at the time, but I didn’t let it bother me. My grandson needed me. That was enough.

I put the sliced cucumbers onto a plate and took two tomatoes out of the refrigerator. Julian always loved the meatloaf I used to make. As a child, he could eat two huge helpings in a single sitting. Thinking of my son, the corners of my mouth turned up in a smile. Even though he was now a successful department manager, in my eyes, he would always be that chubby little boy with two dimples when he smiled.

“Grandma, Grandma,” a tender, childish voice called from the living room, accompanied by the pitter-patter of tiny feet. My little Leo ran into the kitchen and threw his arms around my leg.

“Whoa there, my little treasure. Slow down,” I said, quickly putting down the knife, wiping my hands, and bending to pick him up. Three-year-old Leo was heavy in my arms, his round eyes just like his father’s when he was a boy.

“Grandma, look.” Leo held up a colorful drawing covered in crooked lines and shapes.

“What is this? Let Grandma guess,” I said, pretending to think. “Is it a car?”

“No,” Leo giggled. “It’s a big dinosaur.”

“Wow, a big dinosaur. You drew it so well,” I said, kissing his little cheek. “How about we show it to Daddy when he gets home?”

“When is Daddy coming home?” he asked.

I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was already 6:20. “Soon, soon. Daddy’s on his way home from work.”

Just as I said that, we heard the front door unlock. Leo slipped out of my arms and shot toward the door like a little cannonball.

“Daddy!”

I followed him to the entryway and saw Julian bending to pick up Leo, his face tired but wearing a happy smile. My son was dressed in a sharp suit, his tie slightly loosened, and fine lines had started to appear at the corners of his eyes. Time really flies.

“Mom.” Julian nodded at me, hoisting Leo onto his shoulders. “There was some great news at the office today.”

“What good news?” I asked, taking his briefcase. I could smell a faint scent of sweat. He got that from his father, always sweating easily.

Julian’s eyes lit up, his voice an octave higher. “I got promoted to department manager.”

“Really?” I clapped my hands in delight. “That’s wonderful. I knew my son was capable. Hold on—Mom will add a couple more dishes. We have to celebrate properly.”

I turned to go back to the kitchen, but Julian stopped me.

“No need, Mom. I’ve already booked a private room at the Oak Room. I’m treating my department colleagues to dinner. Clara is coming straight from the mall over there. I just came back to change my clothes and then I’m leaving.”

My hand froze in midair. I slowly turned around. “Oh, that’s very nice. You young people go celebrate. I’ll just stay home and watch Leo.”

Julian didn’t seem to notice my disappointment. Loosening his tie, he said, “We’re taking Leo, too. My in-laws are already waiting there.”

My heart suddenly sank. “Your in-laws?” The words left my mouth before I realized he meant Clara’s parents.

“Yeah,” Julian said. “The whole family has to be there for such a happy occasion.” He draped his suit jacket over the back of the sofa. “Mom, don’t trouble yourself. There are leftovers in the fridge. You can just heat them up and eat.”

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Okay. You all go have a good time.”

Julian quickly took a shower, changed his clothes, and left with Leo in his arms. After the door closed, the only thing left in the kitchen was the gurgling of the soup simmering on the stove. I slowly walked back in, turned off the heat, and looked at the ingredients I had prepared. Suddenly, I had no appetite to cook.

The Oak Room was a high-end restaurant Clara’s parents went to often. Arthur and I had only been to places like that a few times in our entire lives.

“Forget it,” I muttered to myself. “I’m too old to get used to that fancy food anyway.”

I wrapped the cucumber and tomatoes in plastic and put them back in the refrigerator. In the freezer, there was still half a dish of leftover meatloaf from yesterday and a bowl of rice. That was enough dinner for one person.

Just as the microwave beeped, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Clara: Mom, remember to eat the leftovers in the kitchen fridge. Don’t let them go to waste.

I was about to reply when another message came in—a photo of a luxurious private room. Julian stood in the middle holding a glass of wine. Clara and her parents sat on either side of him. Leo was on his maternal grandfather’s lap, and everyone at the table was beaming. In the corner of the photo, I could even see Julian’s sister and brother-in-law. The entire family was there. I was the only one missing.

My finger hovered over the screen for a moment before I finally replied with a single word: Okay.

I placed my phone face down on the dining table, the plastic case making a crisp click against the glass. The leftover meatloaf gave off a rich, savory aroma, but I had suddenly lost my appetite. The clock in the living room pointed to 7:30, and it was completely dark outside.

I mechanically carried my food to the coffee table and turned on the television. The local evening news was on, the anchorwoman’s bright red lips opening and closing. I didn’t hear a single word. My fingers, as if with a mind of their own, unlocked my phone and opened the photo album, scrolling to pictures from three years ago.

It was the first New Year after Arthur passed away. Our whole family took a group photo at the portrait studio near our building. Julian stood in the middle with me on his left and Clara on his right. Leo was surrounded by the three of us, sitting on a small stool in the front row. Back then, I was still part of the family portrait.

A burst of laughter from the television pulled me back. A family sitcom was playing. The actors were gathered around a dining table, talking and laughing. I turned off the TV and the room instantly fell silent, save for the occasional hum of the refrigerator.

Getting up, I walked toward Julian’s bedroom—or I should say their master bedroom now. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open gently and my eyes met a huge wedding photo hanging on the wall above the bed. Clara was in a pure white gown and Julian was in a black suit, both smiling radiantly.

I remembered that wedding dress was custom-made. It cost nearly three thousand dollars, which was half of Arthur’s and my annual pension. The vanity was covered with bottles and jars. I recognized a few as the expensive skincare products Julian had given Clara for her last birthday. Next to it was an exquisite jewelry box filled with gold pieces, most of which Arthur and I had given them over the years. In the most prominent spot was a diamond necklace Julian had bought for their fifth anniversary last year.

I gently closed the door and turned to Leo’s room. The children’s room was a riot of color—cartoon stickers on the walls and toys piled in the corner. I picked up the teddy bear from his bedside. I had sewn it myself when Leo was born. It was a little worn now, but he always had to hug it to sleep.

“At least Leo still needs me,” I murmured, putting the bear back in its place.

Back in the living room, my gaze fell on the family photo albums on the bookshelf. I took down the most recent one. A thin layer of dust had settled on the cover. I opened the first page. It was a black-and-white photo of Julian at one month old, a tiny thing wrapped in a swaddle. My own young face was beaming with the joy of new motherhood.

Flipping through, there was Julian’s first day of kindergarten, clinging to my shirt and refusing to let go. At his elementary school graduation, he wore a big red corsage and recited a poem onstage. In middle school, he won first prize in a math competition, smiling shyly on the awards podium. The day his college acceptance letter arrived, the whole family set off firecrackers in the yard.

Every photo documented the little and big things I had done for my son. To get him into a good school district, Arthur and I scrimped and saved to buy that house. To pay for his tutoring, I didn’t buy any new clothes for three years. The year he took the SATs, I woke up at four every morning to make him soup to keep his strength up.

My phone suddenly rang, jolting me out of my memories. The screen showed Carol—an old neighbor and one of the few friends I still kept in touch with.

“Hello, Eleanor. Have you eaten?” Carol’s loud voice came through the receiver.

“Yes. Yes, I’ve eaten. How about you?” I tried to make my voice sound normal.

“I just finished. I was bored, so I thought I’d give you a call,” Carol said, then paused. “Oh, by the way, I heard your Julian got a promotion. Clara ran into me today. She was so happy—said they’ll finally be able to get a bigger house now.”

My fingers unconsciously tightened on the edge of the album. “A bigger house?”

“Yeah. Clara said they’ve got their eye on that new development on the east side—those townhouses called Willow Creek Estates.” Carol’s voice was filled with envy. “Your Julian is so successful.”

A sharp pain shot through my stomach. Julian had never mentioned moving.

“Eleanor, are you there?”

“Ah—yes. I’m listening,” I managed to reply. “It’s not set in stone yet. You know how Clara likes to talk ahead of things.”

“True, true,” Carol said, changing the subject. “By the way, when are you coming back to the old house for a visit? The community is registering for demolition notices and it looks like your building is within the scope.”

“Demolition?” I was stunned. “Since when?”

“Just in the last couple of weeks. The notices are all posted. The compensation plan looks pretty good, too.” Carol’s tone became puzzled. “What? Julian didn’t tell you?”

I took a deep breath. “He might have. My memory isn’t so good lately.”

After a few more pleasantries, I hung up, my hands trembling uncontrollably. Demolition. A new house. These were huge things. And I, his mother, was hearing about them from someone else.

I walked out onto the balcony. The early summer night breeze was slightly cool. In the distance, the city’s neon lights flickered, the skyscraper silhouettes faint in the darkness. Julian and the others were probably at the Oak Room right now, glasses clinking, celebrating. Were Clara’s parents bragging about their businessman’s son-in-law again? Was Julian’s sister introducing Clara to her circle of wealthy friends? And me? I was only fit to eat leftovers at home, not even told about something as major as the demolition of my own home.

Back inside, I opened the album again, stopping on the night of Julian’s college graduation. In the photo, he wore a cap and gown, his arms around Arthur’s and my shoulders. The three of us were smiling brightly under the sun. Back then, I was still an important person in his life.

My finger traced Julian’s young face in the picture, and a tear fell onto the album. I hastily wiped it away, but more followed.

“Oh, Arthur,” I whispered to my husband’s gentle, smiling face in the photo. “Our son is all grown up. He doesn’t need me anymore.”

I closed the album and went to the bathroom to wash my face. The woman in the mirror had red, swollen eyes, and the wrinkles seemed deeper than last year. Sixty-eight years old. At an age when others were enjoying their grandchildren, I was feeling more and more out of place.

Back in my bedroom, I opened the closet. My eyes fell on a small suitcase in the corner—the one Arthur used during his last hospital stay. I pulled it out and dusted it off. The wheels were a bit stuck, but it still worked. I opened it. A faint smell of disinfectant lingered inside.

“Just for a few days,” I told myself, and began packing a few changes of clothes and toiletries. “I’ll go stay with Helen for a few days just to clear my head.”

Helen was a former colleague. Her husband had passed away early and she lived alone in an old apartment on the north side. She always told me to come and stay when I had time.

After packing, I sat on the edge of the bed and wrote a note: I’m going to stay at Helen’s for a few days. Don’t worry about me. I thought for a moment and added: There’s some mac and cheese in the fridge. Leo likes it.

I stuck the note on the refrigerator and took one last look around the house where I’d lived for three years—the living room I cleaned every day; the kitchen where I carefully prepared every meal; the small table and chairs where Leo scribbled his drawings. I had given so much, yet I felt invisible.

The moment I closed the door, I heard something inside me break. As the elevator descended, I gripped the suitcase handle tightly as if it were the only thing I could hold on to.

As I walked out of the building’s entrance, the security guard, Mike, looked at my suitcase curiously. “Mrs. Eleanor, heading out so late?”

“Yes, going to stay with an old friend for a few days.” I managed a smile.

“Take care now. Be safe.” Mike waved warmly.

I nodded and dragged my suitcase toward the bus stop. The last bus had already left, so I hailed a taxi.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I gave him Helen’s address and then leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes. The car drove into the night, the distance from home growing farther and farther.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Clara: Mom, where did you put Leo’s formula? We’re almost home.

I looked at the screen and didn’t reply. Let Julian find it himself. He should remember how I took care of him when he was a child.

The taxi stopped at a red light. Outside the window, a family of three crossed the street. The young parents held their little girl’s hands between them. They said something and all three laughed. My vision blurred again. Once upon a time, Arthur and I held Julian’s hand just like that, thinking such happiness would last forever.

“We’re here,” the driver’s voice pulled me back. After paying the fare, I stood downstairs from Helen’s apartment, suddenly hesitant. Was it appropriate to disturb her so late? Would she think I was strange?

While I hesitated, my phone rang again. This time, it was Julian. “Mom, where did you go? Leo has been crying for his grandma.”

I took a deep breath and replied: “I’m at Helen’s for a few days. You two take good care of Leo.” After sending the message, I turned off my phone. Tonight, just for once, I would be selfish.

Dragging my suitcase upstairs, I stood in front of Helen’s door and rang the bell. In the few seconds I waited for it to open, I realized this was the first decision I had made for myself in three years.

Helen opened the door, her eyes widening like saucers. “Eleanor, my goodness, what is all this?”

“Can I stay for a few days?” My voice was hoarser than I expected.

Helen immediately pulled me inside and took my suitcase. “What happened? Is it Julian and his family?”

“It’s nothing. I just wanted to get some fresh air.” I forced a smile, but the muscles on my face felt stiff.

Helen’s apartment was small, a one-bedroom, but neat and tidy. A photo of her and her late husband hung on the wall. A few green plants sat by the television. The air had a faint scent of sandalwood. An open book and a pair of reading glasses lay on the coffee table.

“Have you eaten? I can heat up some soup,” Helen asked with concern.

“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.” I put down my bag and was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. My legs felt as heavy as lead.

Sensing my condition, Helen didn’t press further. “Then go take a hot shower first. I’ll make up the bed for you. The sofa pulls out. It’s comfortable.”

As the hot water washed over me, I realized I had been trembling the whole time. The steam fogged up the mirror, blurring my vision along with it. For three years, this was the first time I had showered without Leo’s noisy interruptions, without rushing out to see if he had fallen or bumped into something.

Wearing the clean pajamas Helen had prepared, I walked out to find she had already made the sofa bed. A glass of warm milk sat on the bedside table.

“Drink some milk. It’ll help you sleep,” Helen said, patting my shoulder. “Whatever it is, we can talk tomorrow. For tonight, just rest.”

I nodded gratefully, drank the milk, and snuggled into the soft blankets. Helen turned off the living room light, leaving only a small nightlight on.

My body was extremely tired, but my mind was wide awake. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of cars passing outside, my thoughts racing. Had Julian and his family gotten home? What would they think when they saw my note? Was Leo crying? Did they find the mac and cheese? My phone was still off. I didn’t dare turn it on. I was afraid of seeing Julian’s questions. I was afraid I would soften.

After Arthur passed, Julian became my entire emotional support. Now even he—tears welled up again. I quietly wiped them away, not wanting Helen in the next room to hear.

The pillow smelled of sunshine. Helen must have aired it out today. This small, considerate gesture made the feeling of being neglected at home even more acute.

I don’t know when I finally fell asleep, but I dreamed of Arthur standing in the distance, waving at me. I wanted to run to him, but a small hand held me back. It was Leo. He was crying. “Grandma, don’t go.” I was torn.

The morning sun shone through the curtains onto my face. I opened my eyes, momentarily disoriented, until I saw the familiar furnishings of Helen’s home and remembered the events of last night. Helen was already up. The smell of frying eggs wafted from the kitchen. I sat up and noticed an extra blanket covering me. Helen must have added it during the night.

“You’re awake,” Helen said, carrying breakfast from the kitchen—fried eggs, oatmeal, and some pickles she made. “Just something simple.”

I thanked her and sat at the small table. The breakfast was simple, but it reminded me of the days before I retired, eating with Helen in the company cafeteria. Life was busy then, but at least I had my own life.

“Now, can you tell me what happened?” Helen asked softly, sitting across from me.

I stirred the oatmeal and told her everything—Julian’s promotion celebration I wasn’t invited to; Clara’s text telling me to eat the leftovers; hearing about the demolition and moving plans from Carol.

Helen’s brow furrowed deeper and deeper. “That’s too much. Not telling you about something as big as the demolition.”

“What I want most right now is to know what’s really going on with the old house,” I said, putting down my chopsticks. “Julian probably thought I didn’t care, so he didn’t mention it.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to find out. I’ll go with you to the old building and take a look,” Helen said, standing decisively. “The notice must be posted on the community board.”

After breakfast, we took a bus to the old neighborhood. Along the way, the scenery grew familiar—the grocery store Arthur and I frequented; the kindergarten Julian attended; the park where we walked on weekends. I hadn’t been back in three years. Not much had changed—just a bit older.

Walking through the gate, my heart began to beat faster. There was the sycamore tree Julian crashed into while learning to ride his bike. The stone bench where Arthur loved to sit and cool off in the summer. A few old neighbors were gathered in front of the bulletin board. When they saw me, they greeted me with surprise.

“Eleanor, long time no see.”

After some small talk, I looked at the board. Sure enough, a conspicuous notice of intent for demolition was posted right in the middle. It clearly stated that our building was within the scope and required homeowners to register with the community office within two weeks.

“Your Julian came by last week,” said Mr. Robert, who lived across the hall. “He brought a stack of documents and talked to the office people for a long time.”

A tightness grew in my chest. “What did he say?”

“I’m not sure about the details,” Mr. Robert said. “Seemed like he was asking about the compensation money.”

“Your place is large,” he added. “The compensation should be quite a lot.”

Helen gently squeezed my hand. “Do you want to go ask at the office?”

The office was in the center of the complex. The staff member, Sarah, was an enthusiastic young woman who had often helped Arthur with his pension matters.

“Mrs. Eleanor,” Sarah stood up in surprise. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”

I managed a smile and got straight to the point. “Sarah, I’d like to ask about the demolition of our building.”

Sarah flipped through a registration book. “Building 3, Unit 2502. The homeowner is Arthur Chen. Your son was here last week. He submitted copies of the deed and IDs. The preliminary compensation estimate is around three hundred thousand.”

Three hundred thousand. The number made my vision darken. After Arthur passed, the house was naturally inherited by both Julian and me. Although I had been living there, his name was on the deed.

“So what’s the status now?” I tried to remain calm.

“It’s in the assessment stage,” Sarah explained. “Once the results are out and the agreement is signed, the compensation can be dispersed within three months.” She hesitated. “Your son said you weren’t in good health and that he was fully authorized to handle everything. Is there a problem?”

A huge problem. I fought back my anger. “No, I just came to find out.”

Walking out, my legs felt weak. I leaned against the wall to stand. Helen looked at me with concern.

“They’re handling the demolition behind my back,” I said, my voice trembling. “Three hundred thousand in compensation. What does Julian plan to do with it? Buy a townhouse for Clara?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Helen advised. “Maybe Julian wanted to give you a surprise.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “What kind of surprise needs to be kept from me?”

Standing in front of the old house, I took out my key. I had never removed it from my ring. I inserted it, turned it, and the door opened. A musty smell hit me. The furniture was covered in white cloths, and a thin layer of dust had accumulated on the floor. Sunlight streamed through the curtain gaps, illuminating floating dust.

My footsteps left clear prints on the wood. Everything was familiar—the rocking chair Arthur loved; the porcelain vase I used for flower arrangements; the basketball scuff Julian left on the wall in middle school. Our wedding photo still hung above the bed. A young Arthur—handsome and tall—with me leaning shyly on his shoulder. The photo had yellowed, but the happiness felt like yesterday.

In the study, Julian’s awards and trophies from childhood were neatly arranged on the bookshelf. Arthur always said he wanted to keep these for his grandson—to let him know how outstanding his father was. Julian’s college class schedule was still stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet I bought on a trip to Washington, D.C. There was a crack on the windowsill by the sink from a cup Julian threw in a fit of teenage anger. Every corner held a memory—and now all of it was about to be leveled by bulldozers. What hurt even more was that my own son planned to handle it behind my back.

“Eleanor, look at this,” Helen said, holding a stack of documents she found in a drawer in the study.

I took them. It was the assessment report and compensation plan. Julian’s signature was already on it. There was also a power of attorney with a signature that sloppily imitated mine. I knew my own handwriting. This was not my signature.

“He forged my signature,” I whispered.

Helen gasped. “This—this is illegal.”

I mechanically flipped through the pages and found a note tucked into the last one. It was written by Julian to Clara: Honey, once the demolition money comes through, don’t tell Mom at first. We’ll bring her over to live with us after we buy the townhouse so she doesn’t worry about the money. I’ve already designed the basement as her room. It’s close to the kitchen, convenient for her to cook.

The basement. My room was in the basement.

The world started to spin. I collapsed into Arthur’s rocking chair. It let out a familiar creak. Once upon a time, Arthur sat here holding a young Julian and telling him stories. Later, Julian sat here studying for exams. And later—

“Eleanor, what are you going to do?” Helen asked.

I took a deep breath and suddenly made a decision. “I’m going to stay here for a few days.”

“Here?” Helen looked around. “But the utilities—”

“They should still be on.”

I stood and pulled the dust cover off the sofa. “I need time to think—and I need evidence.”

Helen tried to dissuade me, but seeing my face, she gave up. “Then at least let me help you clean up.”

We worked quickly, dusting the living room and bedroom. Helen went to the corner store to buy daily necessities and food. Meanwhile, I plugged in my phone to charge and turned it on. Dozens of unread messages and missed calls popped up—mostly from Julian, a few from Clara. The most recent was from Julian, sent ten minutes ago: Mom, where on earth are you? Leo cried all night. We’re all so worried about you.

I hesitated, then replied: “I’m at the old house. I want to be alone for a few days. Don’t worry.”

The phone rang immediately. It was Julian. “Mom, why did you go to the old house? No one’s lived there. It’s not safe. I’m coming to get you right now.”

“No need,” I said calmly. “I want to stay here for a few days—to remember my time with your father.”

“But Leo keeps crying for his grandma,” Julian played his trump card. My heart softened for a second, then hardened again as I remembered the documents and the note. “You two are his parents. It’s time you learn to take care of your child on your own. I’ll be back on the weekend.”

I hung up and looked at Helen. “Can you do me a favor? I want to consult a lawyer.”

Helen nodded. “My nephew is a lawyer. He specializes in real estate disputes. I’ll call him now.”

That afternoon, Helen’s nephew, David, came to the old house. He was in his early thirties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and spoke clearly and methodically. After listening to my story and reviewing the documents, David pushed up his glasses.

“Mrs. Chen, first of all, forging a signature is illegal. This power of attorney is invalid. Secondly, this house was the joint property of you and your husband. After he passed, both you and your son are legal heirs, each holding a percentage. Any disposal requires the consent of both. So, first, go to the office and revoke that power of attorney, stating you do not agree with the current arrangement. Second, have a serious talk with your son to understand his true intentions.”

After seeing David out, I sat on the newly made bed, watching the sunset through the window. The old house was quiet. Every evening, the sunlight would stream in just like this. Arthur always called it the golden hour.

My phone rang again. This time, it was Clara. “Mom, please don’t be angry. We didn’t mean to not invite you to dinner. We just thought you wouldn’t like that kind of occasion. Leo really misses you.”

I didn’t reply. It wasn’t that I disliked the occasion. I disliked being excluded. It wasn’t anger. It was heartbreak.

As night fell, the familiar sounds of the old house emerged—the gurgle of water pipes, the soft whistle of wind through the windows, the faint sound of the neighbors’ television. These sounds, which once formed the background of my daily life, now sounded dear. I decided to stay here for a few days and think carefully about the road ahead. Sixty-eight might not be too old. It might still be possible to start over.

When the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, I momentarily thought Arthur was beside me. I reached out to the other side of the bed only to touch a cold sheet. Mornings in the old house were exceptionally quiet. There were no cries from Leo, no hurried footsteps from Julian, no sound of Clara blow-drying her hair. Only birdsong and the old man downstairs clearing his throat.

I got out of bed and opened the curtains. The May sunshine streamed in gently. On the balcony opposite, a few neighbors hung laundry. Old Mr. Jiao from the third floor saw me and waved in surprise. I nodded.

In the kitchen, I boiled water and made a cup of jasmine tea. It was left over from three years ago and the flavor had faded, but it would do. Holding the cup, I stood on the balcony overlooking the neighborhood. In the central garden, a few elderly people practiced tai chi while children chased each other—a picture of peace.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Helen: Are you awake? Do you need me to bring breakfast?

I replied that I could manage. After hanging up, I realized this was the first morning in three years where no one needed me to take care of them.

The breakfast stall at the neighborhood entrance was still there. The lady selling pancakes recognized me. “Oh, Mrs. Chen, long time no see. You look the same as ever.”

I nodded, warmth spreading through my chest. The smell of the pancakes reminded me of the days I used to buy breakfast for Julian. He would always grab the pancake in a hurry and run off to school with me shouting after him, “Slow down. Don’t choke.”

Back at the old house, I ate my pancake while reviewing yesterday’s documents. David was right. I should first revoke that forged power of attorney. But deep down, I still hoped to have a good talk with Julian. I didn’t want things to get ugly.

Just as I was thinking, the phone rang. It was Julian. I took a deep breath before answering.

“Mom, are you okay at the old house?” Julian’s voice sounded exhausted. I could faintly hear Leo crying in the background.

“I’m fine,” I answered calmly. “What’s wrong with Leo?”

“He’s been crying since last night. Won’t eat his breakfast. He just wants his grandma.” Julian sighed. “Clara’s going to be late for work, and I—Mom, when are you coming back?”

“I told you I’ll be back on the weekend. You two are his parents. You need to learn to handle these things.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ I’ve taken care of Leo for three years since he was a baby. You can’t even manage for three days?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Julian’s voice turned cold. “Fine. Have it your way. But Mom, the old building is going to be demolished soon. You shouldn’t stay there too long.”

My heart sank. “How do you know about the demolition?”

“I heard it from the neighbors.” Julian was flustered. “Uh, I have a meeting to get to. I’ll hang up now.”

He ended the call. He was still lying. I decided not to wait any longer. I would go to the office today and revoke that power of attorney.

The office had just opened. Sarah was organizing files. She was surprised to see me.

“Mrs. Chen, you’re here again.”

“Sarah, I want to revoke the previous power of attorney,” I said directly.

“What?” Sarah was stunned. “But your son said you weren’t well—”

“I’m perfectly fine.” I took out my ID. “The signature on that power of attorney was forged. I knew nothing about it.”

Sarah’s face changed. “This is a very serious matter.”

“I know.” I nodded. “That’s why I’m here to clarify. My son and I are co-owners. Any demolition agreement requires both our signatures.”

Sarah quickly pulled out the documents. “Yes, according to the regulations, that’s correct. Mrs. Chen, would you like to discuss this with your son first?”

“No need.” My voice was calm but firm. “Please help me with the revocation. Also, please notify me directly of any progress.”

After completing the paperwork, I walked out. The sun on my face felt like a weight lifted. For the first time in three years, I had made a decision for myself. For the first time, I had clearly said no.

Back at the old house, I started sorting personal belongings. There were still a few of Arthur’s clothes in the closet. I took them out and stroked them gently. They no longer carried his scent, but the warmth of his memory was vivid.

In the bedside table, there was a photo album of Julian from childhood to adulthood. I flipped through them, tears blurring my vision.

In the afternoon, Helen came, bringing hot muffins and homemade pickles.

“Did it go smoothly at the office?” she asked while helping me pack.

“I took care of it,” I nodded. “Sarah said they’ll issue a new notice requiring both parties to be present to sign.”

“So, what are you going to do next?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “David said I’m entitled to a portion of the demolition money. I could buy a small condo for myself. But—”

“But what?”

“I don’t want to lose Julian and Leo.” Tears finally broke through. “They’re my only family.”

Helen hugged me, gently patting my back. “Silly woman. You’re Julian’s mother. That will never change. He might be influenced by Clara right now, but blood is thicker than water. One day, he’ll understand.”

As we talked, the doorbell rang. Helen went to open it, then let out a surprised cry.

“Eleanor, come see this.”

I wiped my tears and walked to the door. The hallway was filled with bags—baby formula, diapers, Leo’s favorite snacks, and a few boxes of health supplements. On top was a note: Mom, we don’t know where Leo’s things are. Please use these for now. Love, Julian.

I crouched and looked through the items, a mixture of feelings in my heart. What was this? A carrot after the stick—or did he genuinely care?

“Should you call him?” Helen asked.

I shook my head. “Let’s wait a little longer.”

That night, I tossed and turned. Every corner of the old house reminded me of the past. At two in the morning, my phone lit up. It was a photo from Clara—Leo’s eyes red and swollen from crying, clutching the teddy bear I made for him. The caption read: Leo misses his grandma.

My heart felt pricked by a needle. For three years, Leo had slept by my side almost every night. How scared he must be now. I almost called Julian, but in the end, I put the phone down. If they truly cared about my feelings, they wouldn’t have forged my signature, planned to put me in the basement, and forgotten me during a family celebration.

On the third morning, I went for a walk. The park near the neighborhood was a place Arthur and I often visited. We would sit on a bench and have breakfast after our exercises. The park hadn’t changed much, only the trees were taller. I sat on our bench, watching the morning light on the lake, lost in thought.

“Mrs. Chen, is that you?” A gentle male voice came from behind. I turned to see a spirited elderly man with white hair and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked familiar.

“I’m James Peterson. I used to be an English teacher at the high school. A colleague of your husband’s,” he said, smiling.

I remembered. “Mr. Peterson—it’s been a long time.”

Mr. Peterson sat next to me. “I heard you moved in with your son. What brings you back?”

I briefly explained, omitting the unpleasant parts. He nodded without asking further. “I live alone now,” he said. “After retiring, I joined the senior program at the community center. I teach a calligraphy class. Life is fulfilling.” He showed me photos—calligraphy exhibitions, poetry readings, a choir. The elderly in the photos smiled, full of life.

“We have a calligraphy and painting exhibition next week at the cultural center,” Mr. Peterson said warmly. “Would you be interested in coming?”

Just as I was about to answer, my phone rang. It was Julian.

I hesitated, then answered. “Mom,” Julian’s voice was unusually anxious. “Leo has a high fever. He keeps calling for Grandma. Can you come back and see him?”

My heart clenched. “What’s his temperature?”

“103.1. We just gave him some fever reducer, but it’s not going down. We don’t know what to do.”

I gripped the phone, my heart torn. Leo was sick. I should go back and take care of him. But if I went back just like that, what was the point of all my resolve?

“Mom, I’m begging you,” Julian’s voice choked. “Leo really needs you.”

In the end, my love for my grandson won. “I’ll be right back.”

After hanging up, I apologized to Mr. Peterson, explaining I had a family emergency. He nodded in understanding and handed me a card. “Get in touch when you have time. The community center is always open to you.”

I hurried back to the old house, packed a few essentials, and called Helen. “You’re going back?” Helen sounded worried.

“Leo is sick. I have to go see him,” I sighed. “But this time, I won’t suffer in silence.”

Helen called a taxi. Before I left, she hugged me tightly. “Remember, you deserve to be respected. Call me anytime.”

Before getting in the car, I took one last look at the old house. This short escape had made me understand many things. I was no longer just a caregiver, a neglected mother and grandmother. I was a person with rights and dignity, deserving to be heard and respected.

The taxi headed toward Julian’s house. My heart was no longer as lost as when I left. No matter what I had to face next, I had found a part of myself again—the Eleanor who, besides being a mother and grandmother, still had her own life.

When the taxi stopped downstairs, a light rain began to fall. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I covered my head with my bag and ran inside. As the elevator ascended, my heart beat faster—worried about Leo and anxious about the confrontation to come.

I inserted the key. The moment the door opened, I heard Leo’s heart-wrenching cries. Without changing my shoes, I rushed to the children’s room. Leo lay on the bed, his face flushed, tears and snot covering his cheeks. Clara clumsily tried to take his temperature while Julian stood nearby holding a half-spilled cup of medicine.

Seeing me, they both looked immensely relieved.

“Mom,” Julian practically ran over. “You’re finally back.”

I ignored him and went straight to the bed, feeling Leo’s scorching forehead. He opened his teary eyes, saw me, and immediately reached out his little hands.

“Grandma, it hurts.”

“Where does it hurt, sweetie?” I asked softly, checking his throat and ears.

“My head hurts,” Leo sobbed.

I took the thermometer and measured again—102.7. Very high. I opened the cabinet, found the cooling patches I always used, and stuck one on his forehead. Then I soaked a towel in warm water and gently wiped his hands and feet.

“Have you been to the hospital?” I asked, my eyes not on Julian or Clara.

“Not yet,” Clara stammered. “We wanted to see if the fever reducer would work first.”

I took a deep breath, suppressing my frustration. “With such a high fever for so long, it could be tonsillitis or an ear infection. He needs to go to the hospital.”

“So we go now?” Julian asked, uncertain.

“Of course. Now.”

I picked up Leo. He quieted a little in my arms, his small hands clutching my collar tightly. Julian grabbed the car keys and Clara ran to change.

Watching their frantic state, I realized that in the three years I’d taken care of Leo, they had barely participated in his daily care. They didn’t even know the most basic responses.

The children’s hospital ER was crowded. We waited nearly an hour to see a doctor. The diagnosis was acute tonsillitis, requiring an IV drip of antibiotics. Leo burst into tears at the sight of the needle. I held him, softly humming his favorite nursery rhyme. As the nurse inserted the IV, Julian and Clara stood by helpless.

“The parents can help hold the child still,” the nurse said, giving them a look. Only then did Julian step forward awkwardly to hold Leo’s leg. The moment the needle went in, Leo cried even louder. My heart ached so much I almost cried, too.

It was late by the time the drip finished. Leo’s fever had subsided a little, and he fell asleep in my arms. On the way home, the car was silent, except for the rain hitting the windows and Leo’s steady breathing.

When we got home, I settled Leo in his bed and stayed by his side. Julian and Clara hovered at the doorway, wanting to say something but not daring to.

“You two go rest,” I said without turning my head. “I’ll stay with Leo tonight.”

They left as if granted amnesty. I listened to their footsteps recede and sighed softly, tucking Leo in.

At three in the morning, Leo’s fever finally broke and his breathing became steady. I leaned back in the chair by his bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. My phone lit up. It was a message from Helen: How’s Leo? Do you need my help?

I replied: We’ve seen a doctor. He’s stable now.

“That’s good,” Helen wrote. “By the way, my nephew said if you need legal advice, you can contact him anytime.”

I had just put down my phone when I heard a soft knock. Julian stood there with a glass of warm milk.

“Mom, thank you for your hard work.” He handed me the milk. “Is Leo better?”

I nodded. “The fever’s gone. He should be fine.”

Julian sat by the bed, looking at sleeping Leo, hesitating to speak. After a moment, he finally said, “Mom, where were you these past few days? We were really worried.”

“I was at the old house,” I said calmly. “I saw the demolition notice. And I saw the power of attorney you forged with my signature.”

Julian’s face turned pale instantly. “Mom, let me explain—”

“Explain what?” My voice was calm, each word cold as an icicle. “Explain how you handled the old house behind my back? Explain how you and Clara plan to use the money to buy a townhouse? Or explain how you plan to have me live in the basement?”

Julian’s eyes widened, not expecting me to know so much. “Mom, it’s not what you think. We wanted to give you a surprise—”

“Enough,” I hissed, keeping my voice low so as not to wake Leo. “You’re still lying.”

Julian hung his head, his hands wringing nervously. “I’m sorry, Mom. It was Clara. She said you were getting old, that we should handle these things.”

“So in your eyes I’m already senile, not worthy of knowing my own house is being torn down?” My voice trembled. “Julian, that house was your father’s and my life’s work. And you so easily—”

“Mom,” Julian suddenly grabbed my hand. “After the money comes, we’ll give you a share. It’s just that Clara has always wanted a bigger house, and you know how real estate prices are.”

I pulled my hand back, feeling a chill in my heart. “So, how much were you planning to give me? A room in the basement?”

Julian was speechless, his eyes darting away. Just then, Leo turned over in his sleep and murmured, “Grandma.”

We both looked at him, speechless.

“Go to bed,” I finally said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Julian, as if granted amnesty again, quickly left. I leaned back, looking at Leo’s sleeping face, tears streaming silently. This was the son I raised. To please his wife, he could deceive his own mother.

The next morning, Leo’s fever was gone, and he was in much better spirits. I made his favorite steamed egg custard, feeding it to him one small spoon at a time. Clara came out and saw this, her expression complicated.

“Mom, thank you for last night.”

I didn’t respond, just focused on feeding Leo. Clara stood awkwardly, then went to make coffee. Julian came out with dark circles under his eyes, obviously having not slept well. He sat across the table, wanting to speak but hesitating.

“Daddy,” Leo called happily, breaking the heavy atmosphere. “Daddy, Grandma’s back.”

Julian forced a smile. “Yes, Grandma’s back. Is Leo happy?”

“Happy,” Leo answered loudly, then turned to me. “Grandma’s not leaving.”

I kissed his cheek. “Grandma will always be with Leo.”

This seemed to relieve Julian. The tense expression softened, but I knew our problems were far from resolved.

After breakfast, Clara went to work. Julian said he had taken a half day off to help at home. While Leo watched cartoons, Julian finally gathered the courage to speak.

“Mom, about the old house—can we talk properly?”

I put down the cleaning cloth and sat on the sofa. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“First, I apologize for handling the demolition behind your back,” Julian said, his head bowed like a child who had done wrong. “But you have to believe we never intended to mistreat you.”

“Then why forge my signature?” I looked him in the eye.

Julian avoided my gaze. “Because… because Clara said you might not agree to demolishing the old house. After all, there are so many memories.”

“So you just made the decision for me?” I shook my head. “Julian, I am your mother, not an elderly person whose life you can arrange. I have the right to know—the right to decide.”

“I was wrong, Mom.” Julian’s voice was tinged with tears. “You can punish me however you want. Just please don’t be angry with me anymore.”

Seeing his red-rimmed eyes, my heart softened a bit. But then I remembered the documents and the plan, and it hardened again.

“I’m going to revoke that power of attorney. I will be personally involved in the demolition process. As for how the compensation is divided, we need to have a serious talk.”

Julian nodded repeatedly. “Whatever you say, Mom, as long as you don’t leave this family, anything is fine.”

“Julian,” I interrupted. “I came back because Leo was sick, not because I’ve forgiven what you’ve done. We need time to talk and rebuild trust.”

Julian fell silent. After a long while, he said, “Mom, you’ve changed.”

“Yes, I have,” I admitted. “I’ve realized that besides being your mother and Leo’s grandmother, I am also myself—Eleanor. I have my own rights, feelings, and needs.”

Julian seemed stunned by this, staring at me blankly. Just then, the phone rang. It was Clara. Julian answered and walked out to the balcony to talk. Through the glass door, I saw his expression change from surprise to anger and finally to resignation.

After hanging up, he came back with a grim face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Clara—she’s not happy that you want to be involved in the distribution,” Julian said with difficulty. “She says that money is very important for us to buy a house.”

I took a deep breath. “So in her eyes, my rights are less important than your plan?”

Julian didn’t answer, but his silence said everything. My heart turned cold.

“Mom,” he finally spoke, his voice cold and stiff. “Have you had enough? Leo has been crying non-stop. Clara’s work has been affected. And now you want to interfere with the money. Can’t you be a little more considerate of us?”

I looked at him in shock, unable to believe these words came from my son. All the grievances, anger, and sadness churned in my chest, but I maintained a calm facade.

“Julian,” I said slowly, “legally, I am entitled to a portion of the money from the old house. As for taking care of Leo, I do it out of love, not obligation.”

Julian’s expression stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I looked him straight in the eye, “if you and Clara think I’m just a free nanny and a cash machine you can dispose of at will, you are mistaken.”

Julian’s phone rang again. He glanced at it and irritably rejected the call. “Mom, can we please not fight? How much money do you want? Just say it.”

The words stabbed like a knife. I stood, my voice trembling. “You think all I want is money? Julian, what I want is respect—to be treated as a person with thoughts and feelings, not an accessory in your lives.”

Leo was frightened by our argument and started to sob. I quickly went to him and held him, soothing him softly. Julian stood by, his expression complex.

Once Leo calmed down, I decided to bring up the key issue. “The demolition appraisal is about three hundred thousand, right?”

Julian was flustered. “How—how did you know?”

“I asked at the office,” I said calmly. “They also told me you had already submitted the documents, intending to handle everything yourself.”

Julian’s face turned red, then pale. “Mom, we can discuss this properly.”

“Discuss?” I gave a bitter laugh. “If I hadn’t found out, would you have discussed it with me?”

Julian was speechless. He turned and walked to the balcony to call Clara again. This time, he kept his voice very low, but I still caught: “My mom knows everything. She’s going to revoke the power of attorney—what do we do?”

After the call, Julian’s attitude changed. “Mom, Clara said she wants to treat you to dinner tonight to have a good talk.”

I sensed a reason behind this sudden shift. “No need. We can talk at home.”

“But—”

“Julian,” I interrupted. “Since when did we, mother and son, need to be so formal?”

He fell silent. The atmosphere became awkward. Leo sensed it and clung to me tightly.

In the afternoon, Clara came home early, carrying a box of pastries. She put on a smile as soon as she walked in.

“Mom, I heard you like the walnut crisps from this place. I bought some especially for you.”

I thanked her but didn’t engage further. Clara awkwardly placed the pastries on the table, then pulled Julian into the bedroom. Before the door closed, I heard her whisper: “We have to appease her, otherwise—” The door shut. It was enough to make my heart sink.

As expected, their kindness had an ulterior motive. Clara took the initiative to cook dinner, which was rare. At the table, she kept putting food on my plate, asking about my well-being, but I could see the calculation behind her smile.

“Mom,” Clara finally got to the point, “I heard you know about the demolition.”

I nodded and continued eating.

“Actually, we wanted to give you a surprise,” Clara said sweetly. “We plan to use the money to buy a big house and prepare a large south-facing room for you.”

I put down my chopsticks and looked her straight in the eye. “Really? Then why did the note I found in Julian’s study say: the basement is close to the kitchen—convenient for Mom to cook?”

Clara’s smile froze. Julian dropped his chopsticks in shock.

“Mom, you—you went through my study?” Julian stammered.

“I was looking for Leo’s vaccination records the other day,” I explained. “And I saw it by accident.”

After an awkward silence, Clara’s expression changed. “Since you know everything, let’s be direct. We do have an urgent need for the money. Aren’t you living here just fine? Why do you have to fight over that bit of money?”

“Clara—” Julian tried to stop her.

“Don’t stop me,” Clara said. “Do you know how expensive it is to raise a child now? How high real estate prices are? We finally have a chance to get a bigger house. As an elder, shouldn’t you be supportive?”

I looked at this once gentle and lovely daughter-in-law and suddenly felt she was a stranger—and my son just sat there, saying nothing.

“Clara,” I stood slowly. “First, that’s not just your money. Second, respect is mutual. You plan celebrations without inviting me, tell me to eat leftovers, handle my house behind my back, and now you accuse me of fighting for money. Is this how you treat your elders?”

Clara wanted to say more, but Leo started crying. I picked up my grandson and left the table. Behind me, I heard Julian and Clara begin to argue in low voices.

That night, I slept with Leo in the children’s room. In the dead of night, I gently stroked his soft hair, thinking about the future. It was clear that in this family, I had gone from being a member to a burden and an obstacle. But at sixty-eight, did I not have the right to choose? Looking at Leo’s sleeping face, I made a decision. It was time to live for myself—not just for me, but to show Leo that even at nearly seventy, a person could live with dignity.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains. I rose gently, trying not to wake Leo. After last night’s argument, the atmosphere in the house was tense. But at least Leo’s fever was gone.

In the kitchen, I put water on to boil for oatmeal, moving quietly. There weren’t many ingredients in the fridge. I found a few mushrooms and some greens, planning a light mushroom and vegetable oatmeal. As I chopped, my thoughts drifted to the community center Mr. Peterson mentioned—calligraphy. I had been obsessed with it when I was young, but work and family got in the way. Picking it up again now might be good.

By the time the oatmeal was ready, Julian walked in, rubbing his eyes.

“Mom, you’re up so early.”

“I’m used to it,” I answered, placing a bowl on the table. “I made Leo’s separately. We can heat it when he wakes.”

Julian sat, staring blankly at his bowl. The dark circles under his eyes were obvious.

“Mom,” he began hesitantly. “About last night. Clara—she—”

“No need to explain,” I interrupted. “I understand your desire for a bigger house. But your methods were wrong.”

Julian lowered his head. “I know I was wrong. Actually, Clara and I had a fight last night.”

I was a bit surprised but didn’t show it, continuing to stir the pot.

“I told her she shouldn’t have treated you like that—that she shouldn’t have handled the demolition behind your back,” Julian said softly. “But she thinks I’m siding with you too much.”

“And what do you think?” I put down the spoon and looked him in the eye.

Julian looked up, his eyes red. “Mom, I—I don’t know what to do. It’s you on one side and Clara and Leo on the other. I don’t want to lose any of you.”

Seeing his pained expression, my heart softened. The son caught in the middle had his own difficulties—but understanding didn’t mean compromising.

“Julian,” I sat across from him. “I’m not asking you to choose between me and Clara. I just want to be treated as a person with thoughts and dignity—not an accessory to be arranged by you.”

Julian was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, “Mom, you’ve really changed a lot.”

“Have I?”

“You never used to express your dissatisfaction so directly. You always endured in silence.”

I gave a bitter smile. “Because I used to think forbearance was love. Now I understand true love requires mutual respect.”

Julian nodded thoughtfully. Then, as if making a resolution: “Mom, you’re right about the money. It should be divided fairly. I’ll talk to Clara again.”

I patted his hand. “Let’s eat first. The oatmeal is getting cold.”

After breakfast, Julian went to work. Clara took the day off—whether to spend time with Leo or to keep an eye on me, I didn’t know. She stayed in her bedroom until after I put Leo down for a nap.

“Mom,” she stood at the kitchen doorway, her tone softer than last night. “Can we talk?”

I dried my hands and gestured for her to sit. “Go ahead.”

Clara wrung her hands. “About yesterday, my attitude was bad. I apologize.”

I didn’t respond immediately, waiting for her to continue.

“Julian and I discussed it,” Clara said, eyes avoiding mine. “The money—we agree you should have a part of it.”

“How much?” I asked directly.

Clara clearly wasn’t expecting such a direct question. She was stunned for a moment. “Well, we were thinking twenty percent. How does that sound?”

Eighty thousand. I quickly calculated. The market value was at least three hundred thousand. Legally, I was entitled to at least half.

“Clara,” I said calmly, “do you know how much I’m entitled to by law?”

Her expression froze. “Mom, we’re family. Why do we have to be so calculative?”

“If we were really family,” I interrupted, “you wouldn’t have forged my signature. You wouldn’t have planned for me to live in the basement. And you wouldn’t have forgotten me during a family celebration.”

Clara’s face turned ugly. “Mom, are you trying to settle scores with us?”

“Not settling scores—being reasonable.” I stood. “I will consult a lawyer about the money. I won’t give up what’s mine, and I won’t take a penny that isn’t.”

Clara shot up, her chair scraping. “Fine. Since you want to tear things apart, don’t blame us for being merciless.” She stormed back to her bedroom and slammed the door.

I sighed, knowing the temporary peace was broken—but strangely, I didn’t feel the panic or self-blame I used to. Instead, I felt relief. At least we didn’t have to pretend anymore.

In the afternoon, while Clara took Leo downstairs to play, I called Mr. Peterson to ask about the calligraphy class at the community center.

“Mrs. Chen,” Mr. Peterson’s voice was full of surprise. “I was just about to contact you. The class starts tomorrow at two. Are you interested in trying it out?”

“I’d like to try,” I said, “but I might not make it every week.”

“No problem,” he said warmly. “We’re flexible. You’re welcome anytime.”

After hanging up, I felt a long-lost sense of anticipation. Calligraphy. I wondered if my hands, which hadn’t practiced in over thirty years, could still write well.

In the evening, Julian worked late and didn’t come home for dinner. The table was just me, Clara, and Leo. The atmosphere was so heavy that even Leo noticed, eating quietly without a word. After dinner, Clara took Leo straight to his room, leaving me alone. I turned on the TV but couldn’t focus.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Helen: How are things? Is it any better?

I replied: Calm for now, but the problem isn’t solved. I’m thinking of going to the community center tomorrow.

“Good idea,” Helen wrote. “Getting out will do you good. By the way, my nephew said if you need legal help, you can call him anytime.”

I thanked her and put down my phone. Legal action was the last resort. I still hoped to resolve things peacefully with Julian and his family.

The next morning, Julian was home for breakfast for a change. Clara was still asleep. I made his favorite biscuits.

“Mom,” Julian said, taking a bite. “Do you have any plans today?”

“I’m thinking of going to the community center this afternoon,” I told him. “Mr. Peterson invited me to join the calligraphy class.”

Julian was surprised. “A calligraphy class? Since when?”

“I loved it when I was young, but then I got busy with work and family.” I poured him orange juice. “Now that I have time, I want to pick it up again.”

Julian nodded thoughtfully. “That’s great. You should have hobbies of your own.”

I sensed a change in his attitude. “Did Clara say something to you?”

Julian put down his fork and sighed. “She said you threatened to get a lawyer to divide the money.”

“I didn’t threaten,” I corrected. “I said I’d consult a lawyer to understand my rights.”

“Mom,” Julian suddenly grabbed my hand. “Let’s not take it that far, okay? A family suing each other—it would be so ugly.”

Looking at his pleading eyes, my heart softened. “Julian, I don’t want that either. But you both must respect my rights and feelings.”

He nodded. “I understand. I’ll try to talk to Clara again.”

After breakfast, Julian went to work. Clara got up and took Leo straight to her parents’ house without even saying goodbye. I was alone and felt a sense of relief.

At 1:30, I packed a small bag and took the bus to the community center. On the bus, I watched the street scenes flash by, remembering the days when I used to carry my art supplies to class. Back then, I too had dreams.

The community center was on the third floor of the cultural building—spacious and bright. The hallway was decorated with members’ artworks. Although skill levels varied, you could see the heart poured into each piece.

“Mrs. Chen,” Mr. Peterson greeted me from a classroom, warmly shaking my hand. “I’m so glad you came.”

He showed me around—the choir, the painting class, the tai chi group—and finally, the calligraphy classroom. A dozen silver-haired students practiced. They nodded and smiled kindly when I entered.

“Today, we’re learning the basic strokes of standard script,” Mr. Peterson announced. “This is Mrs. Chen. She was a middle school art teacher before she retired and has a good foundation.”

I quickly waved my hands. “I haven’t practiced in years. I’m starting from scratch now.”

Mr. Peterson sat me next to a kind-looking old lady. “This is Pat. She’s the life of our class.”

Pat smiled and handed me a brush. “Mrs. Chen, welcome to our Sunset Glow team.”

The classroom was relaxed and cheerful. When I dipped the brush in ink and made the first stroke, a long-lost tranquility washed over me. Horizontal, vertical, left-falling stroke—the basics were rusty, but the feeling returned.

“Relax your wrist,” Mr. Peterson guided softly. “Yes, like that. You have a very good foundation.”

When the two-hour class ended, I was left wanting more. Pat enthusiastically invited me to their after-class tea party and I gladly accepted. At the tea party, we spoke freely—calligraphy, life, families. When I mentioned the conflict with my son and daughter-in-law, Pat patted my hand.

“My two sons are even worse. They almost came to blows over demolition money. They don’t speak now.”

Another gentleman said, “When children grow up, they have their own lives. We old folks have to learn to find our own fun and not revolve around them.”

Listening to their stories, I realized many elderly people faced similar difficulties. The difference was that some chose to suffer in silence while others bravely fought for their dignity.

On the way home, my mood was lighter. I passed a stationery store and bought paper and an inkstone, planning to practice at home.

I opened the door and was surprised to find Julian and Clara both in the living room. Leo was on the floor playing with blocks. Seeing me, Julian immediately stood.

“Mom, you’re back. How was the calligraphy class?”

“It was great,” I answered briefly, noticing a cake box on the coffee table.

“Mom,” Clara began, her tone softer than yesterday, “we bought your favorite chestnut cake. We wanted to have a good talk with you.”

I put down my bag and sat in the armchair. “Go on.”

Julian and Clara exchanged a look. Then Julian said, “Mom, we’ve discussed it. We can give you one-third of the money. The rest will be used for the new house, and we’ll have a south-facing bedroom for you.”

I noticed he looked at Clara when he said “we’ve discussed it.” Clearly, this decision was something Clara had reluctantly agreed to.

“And the basement?” I asked directly.

Clara’s face flushed. “That was—That was just a thoughtless idea before. In the new house, you’ll live upstairs.”

I didn’t respond immediately, instead looking at Leo. The little guy was focused on his blocks, serious. His t-shirt collar was dirty and his nails were a bit long—details I usually took care of.

“Leo,” I called softly. “Come to Grandma.”

Leo dropped his blocks and ran over, stumbling into my arms. I stroked his hair and smelled the familiar scent of his shampoo. My heart softened.

“Mom,” Julian took the opportunity. “Is this arrangement okay? We’re a family. We can discuss and solve any problem.”

I took a deep breath. “Julian, Clara, I can accept the one-third plan, but I have one condition.”

“What condition?” Clara immediately became alert.

“I need to have my own independent living space and time,” I said calmly. “For example, I’ll go to the community center three days a week, and you two will take care of Leo yourselves.”

Clara frowned. “But—”

“Clara,” I interrupted. “Leo is already three. You are his parents. You should take on more responsibility. I can help—but not do everything.”

To my surprise, Julian nodded first. “Mom is right. We should spend more time with Leo.”

Clara glared at him but didn’t object further.

“Also,” I continued, “I want to be involved in the design of the new house. I will decide on my own room.”

Clara hesitated, but Julian squeezed her hand and she nodded. “Okay. Then it’s settled.”

I picked up Leo. “Now, who’s going to tell me why Leo’s nails are so long?”

Julian and Clara looked at each other, embarrassed. I shook my head, took out the child’s nail clippers, and said, “Watch. I’ll teach you how to cut Leo’s nails.”

That evening, the atmosphere eased. Although Clara was still a bit unnatural, at least she wasn’t giving me the cold shoulder. Julian was visibly relieved and even tried some of my practice sheets, praising my talent.

Before bed, I sat and looked through the photos I took today—the group photo from class; the “Harmony in the Family” piece I wrote; Leo’s focused face as he played. Suddenly, a new message popped up. It was from Mr. Peterson with next week’s schedule, followed by: Mrs. Chen, your brushwork has a lot of spirit. Keep it up, and you’ll surely achieve great things.

I smiled, put down my phone, and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, I felt for the first time that beyond the roles of mother and grandmother, I could also be Mrs. Chen—the student; the young girl who once had artistic dreams.

The morning sun streamed through the curtains. It was Saturday. Leo didn’t have preschool, and for once, Julian and Clara were both home. After washing, I tied on my apron to make breakfast. In the kitchen, I fried eggs while thinking about yesterday’s class. Mr. Peterson taught us the eight principles of Yong, the foundation of standard script. My wrist was still a little sore, but the long-lost concentration was captivating.

“Grandma!” Leo ran in barefoot and hugged my leg. “I want a fried egg.”

“Okay. Grandma’s making them now.” I bent and kissed his cheek. “Go wake up Mommy and Daddy.”

Leo bounced off. A moment later, Julian walked in, rubbing his eyes.

“Mom, you’re cooking so early.”

“I’m used to it.” I placed the eggs on a plate. “Is Clara still sleeping?”

Julian poured water. “Mom, are you going to the community center again today?”

“This afternoon,” I said, wiping my hands. “I’ll play with Leo this morning.”

Julian nodded, then lowered his voice. “Mom, about the money—Clara and I talked a few more times. Her attitude has softened a lot. You don’t have to worry.”

I was surprised he’d bring this up. “She agreed to the one-third split?”

“Yes.” Julian hesitated. “But Mom, do you really need that much money? I mean, you live with us. You don’t have to worry about expenses.”

I put down the spatula and looked him in the eye. “Julian, that money isn’t just money. It’s your father’s and my life savings. It’s my security and my dignity. Besides, who knows what the future holds? What if I get sick and need a caregiver?”

“Mom, why would you think that? Clara and I will definitely take care of you.”

I didn’t argue, just smiled. “I hope so.”

After breakfast, Clara finally got up, looking unwell. She ate a little, then said she had to go out.

“Working on a Saturday?” Julian asked.

“Meeting a friend to look at houses.” Clara glanced at me. “Since Mom is taking one-third of the money, we have to reconsider our budget.”

Julian gave me an awkward look.

“Clara, it’s all right,” I said calmly. “You should plan carefully. By the way, can I see the floor plans for the new house?”

Clara hesitated. “They’re still in the design phase. I’ll show you when they’re finalized.”

After she hurried out, Julian explained, “Clara is just anxious. She actually respects you a lot.”

“Julian,” I interrupted. “You don’t always have to make excuses for Clara. I know what she’s thinking.”

Julian closed his mouth, sheepish, and went to build blocks with Leo.

After cleaning the kitchen, I took out the paper and brush I bought and started practicing at the table. Horizontal and vertical strokes, left and right falling. The ink marks were still not smooth, but better than yesterday’s.

Leo came over curiously. “Grandma, are you drawing?”

“This is writing,” I explained with a smile. “Grandma is learning calligraphy.”

“I want to learn, too.” Leo excitedly climbed onto a chair. I held his small hand and showed him how to hold the brush. “Come, Grandma will teach you to write ‘Leo.’”

Julian watched and took out his phone to take a picture. “Mom, you teaching Leo to write is such a heartwarming scene.”

At noon, Clara didn’t come back for lunch. Julian ordered takeout. After lunch, Leo napped and I prepared to leave for the community center.

“Mom,” Julian said at the door, holding my bag, “be careful on your way.”

This small gesture warmed my heart. “Okay. You two take good care of Leo.”

The community center was lively. They were holding an art exhibition next week, and everyone was preparing. Mr. Peterson saw me and greeted me warmly.

“Mrs. Chen, perfect timing. We’re short on hands to set up the exhibition area. Can you help?”

I agreed and worked with several members to hang paintings, stick labels, and arrange displays. Pat chatted with me while we worked.

“Mrs. Chen, did you resolve your family matter?”

“It’s calmed down for now,” I said briefly. “But they still won’t show me the floor plans.”

Pat snorted. “Be careful. They might be up to something. My son was like that, too—said all the right things, but in the end—”

Mr. Peterson came over, interrupting our conversation. “Mrs. Chen, would you be willing to do a live calligraphy demonstration at next week’s exhibition? I think your standard script is very solid.”

I quickly declined. “I’ve only had two lessons.”

“Don’t be so modest,” he smiled. “Consider it encouragement for the others.”

I reluctantly agreed, but my heart pounded. Could my calligraphy, neglected for so many years, be presented to others?

After the event, Mr. Peterson stayed to help me practice. He patiently corrected my grip and explained the force behind each stroke. Before I knew it, the lights outside had come on.

“It’s so late,” I looked at my watch and hurriedly packed my things. “I have to get home. Leo will be looking for me.”

“Mrs. Chen, you’re improving very quickly,” Mr. Peterson said. “Next week’s demonstration will be no problem.”

On the bus home, I felt a long-lost sense of accomplishment—not from taking care of my grandson or making a meal, but from completing something unrelated to being a mother or grandmother.

I pushed open the door and was surprised to find the living room dark. Only a sliver of light came from the study. I fumbled for the switch and found takeout boxes on the table and Leo’s toys scattered on the floor.

“Julian?” I called.

No answer. The study door was slightly ajar. I walked over, about to knock, when I heard Clara’s voice inside.

“We have to find a way to make your mom give up that share of the money. If we have to, we’ll threaten to not let her see Leo.”

My hand froze, my heart racing.

Julian’s voice was low and tired. “Clara, don’t be like that. Mom has already compromised.”

“Compromised?” Clara’s voice became shrill. “One-third is still over a hundred thousand. The down payment won’t be enough.”

“We can choose a smaller one.”

“Julian,” Clara practically screamed, “whose side are you on? Your mom’s or your wife and son’s?”

After a moment, Julian said in a low voice, “Of course I’m on your side. But Mom hasn’t had it easy.”

Clara sneered. “Hasn’t had it easy? What’s she going to do with all that money by herself? Isn’t it enough that we’re taking care of her in her old age?”

My hand started to shake. I had to lean against the wall to stay upright. This was the son I worked so hard to raise. This was the daughter-in-law I treated like my own.

“All right, all right,” Julian’s compromising voice came. “I’ll talk to Mom again. By the way, did you put away the floor plans? Don’t let Mom see them.”

“Of course,” Clara said smugly. “I locked them in my office drawer. The basement has been changed to a storage room. If she asks, we’ll just say the designer recommends that elderly people live on the first floor.”

I couldn’t listen anymore. I turned to leave, but accidentally bumped into the umbrella stand by the door. It clattered. The conversation stopped.

“Who’s there?” Julian asked wearily.

The door yanked open. Julian and Clara stood there looking at me in shock. The air seemed to freeze. The three of us stared at each other, no one speaking.

“Mom—when—when did you get back?” Julian stammered.

“Just now.” My voice was calm. “I heard you discussing me.”

Clara’s face turned pale. “Mom, let us explain—”

“No need to explain.” I turned and walked toward my room. “I’ve heard enough.”

Julian chased after me, grabbing my hand. “Mom, you misunderstood. That’s not what we meant.”

I shook his hand off. “Julian, I’m sixty-eight, not six. I know what I heard.”

Clara rushed over, blocking my way. “Since you heard it, let’s be direct. That money is very important to us. Leo’s future education, buying a house, getting married—it all costs money. What does an old lady like you need so much money for?”

I looked at this once gentle daughter-in-law and felt she was a stranger—her eyes glinting with greed, her mouth twisted in anger.

“Clara,” I said, word by word, “that was bought with a lifetime of savings from your father-in-law and me. I have the right to decide how to use it.”

“You—” Clara was trembling with anger. “Are you trying to drive us to our deaths?”

“Enough!” Julian suddenly roared, startling both of us. “Stop it. Mom, you go rest first. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I walked into my room silently and closed the door. All my strength seemed to drain away. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands trembled uncontrollably. My temples throbbed with pain. This was the family I had given everything for. In their eyes, I was just a nuisance—an old woman who should hand over her assets.

On the bedside table was a photo of Arthur and me. He was smiling gently, as if giving me strength. I stroked the frame, tears streaming silently.

“Oh, Arthur,” I murmured. “How did our son become like this?”

The night grew late. The house was quiet. I lay in bed, unable to sleep. The scenes replayed—Clara’s hideous face, Julian’s cowardice. Suddenly, a severe headache hit me, and a flash of white light blinded me. I tried to sit up but found my right side unresponsive. My right hand fell limply to the side of the bed.

“Oh no.” I vaguely realized what was happening. I tried to call for help but couldn’t form clear words—only muffled groans. My vision started to go dark. In my last moments of consciousness, I saw the door pushed open and Julian’s terrified face in the doorway.

“Mom! Mom, what’s wrong with you?”

“Clara, call an ambulance! I think Mom’s having a stroke!”

Then—darkness.

Blinding white light. That was my first perception. Then the smell of disinfectant, the rhythmic beeping of a machine, and the feel of a coarse bedsheet beneath me. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids were heavy.

“Blood pressure is stable. Right side limb mobility, grade two. A mild stroke. Requires further observation.” A fragmented conversation drifted in. It seemed to be a doctor.

“Mom, can you hear me?” This time it was Julian, very close, choked with tears.

I mustered all my strength and finally opened my eyes. In my blurry vision, Julian’s haggard face slowly came into focus. His eyes were red and swollen, his face unshaven. He looked ten years older.

“Water,” I managed. My throat was as dry as if on fire.

Julian quickly used a swab to moisten my lips. “The doctor said not to drink too much. You might choke. Mom, you scared me to death.”

I moved my eyes, taking in my surroundings. It was a two-person hospital room. I was by the window. The other bed was empty. It was an overcast day outside—impossible to tell the time.

“What time is it?” I asked hoarsely.

“Three in the afternoon. You were unconscious for a day and a night.”

I tried to move my right hand. I could feel a faint sensation but couldn’t lift it. My right leg was the same. My left side could move, but any large movement made me dizzy.

“The doctor said you had a mild stroke,” Julian held my left hand. “Your right side is temporarily weak, but it can recover through physical therapy.”

I nodded, then suddenly remembered. “Leo?”

“He’s at Clara’s parents’ house,” Julian lowered his head. “Clara has an important project. She can’t get away.”

I closed my eyes, my heart turning cold. My daughter-in-law wouldn’t even visit me in the hospital. This was the family I took care of for three years.

“Mom,” Julian hesitated. “About that night, we—”

“Don’t say it,” I interrupted, my voice weak but firm. “I heard everything.”

Julian’s face turned pale. “Mom, those were just angry words. We didn’t mean it—”

“Julian,” I looked him in the eye, “I’m sixty-eight, not six. I know the difference between angry words and what you truly mean.”

He hung his head in shame, his hands clenched. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t respond—just turned to look out the window. The sky was gloomy, about to rain. The room fell silent, with only the beeping monitor.

A nurse came in to check my blood pressure and IV, breaking the silence. After she left, Julian, as if finding an excuse to change the subject, said, “The doctor said you need to be observed for two weeks. Then we’ll see if you need to be transferred to a rehabilitation facility.”

“What about the cost?” I suddenly asked.

Julian was taken aback. “What?”

“The hospital bills. The treatment fees,” I said calmly. “My insurance doesn’t cover much.”

“Don’t you worry,” Julian stammered. “Clara and I will figure something out.”

I gave a cold laugh. “With my demolition money?”

Julian’s face flushed. “Mom, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean? Weren’t you in a hurry to use that money to buy a townhouse?”

Julian was at a loss for words. After a long while, he mumbled, “Mom, you need to rest now. We’ll talk later.”

Just then, the door opened and a familiar figure walked in. Mr. Peterson, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Mrs. Chen.” He walked quickly to my bedside. “I heard you were hospitalized. I came to see you.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Mr. Peterson, how did you—”

“The nurse at the community center told me.” He placed the flowers on the table. “Everyone is worried about you.”

Julian stood awkwardly. “This is James Peterson, my mom’s calligraphy teacher.”

“Julian Chen,” Mr. Peterson introduced himself and shook hands. His expression was complex. He turned to me. “Mrs. Chen, don’t worry about the class. Just focus on getting better. Pat and the others all wanted to visit, but I was afraid it’d be too many people, so I told them to come in a few days.”

I was so moved my eyes welled up. “Thank you. I’m sorry to have worried everyone.”

Mr. Peterson asked about my condition and said he could connect me with a very good physical therapist. The whole time, Julian stood to the side, looking out of place. After a while, Mr. Peterson got up to leave.

“You rest well. I’ll come see you again.” Before he left, he gave Julian a meaningful look. “Family is the most important thing. I hope you cherish it.”

After Mr. Peterson left, Julian was silent for a long time. Suddenly, he said, “Mom, I’ll go buy you some fruit,” and hurried out.

I lay alone, looking at the flowers. Carnations and baby’s breath—simple and fresh. The card read: Wishing Mrs. Chen a speedy recovery—from all the members of the community center calligraphy class. A simple greeting, but it brought tears to my eyes. These people I had known for only two weeks cared more about me than my own family.

In the evening, the door opened again. I thought it was Julian, but instead I saw Pat peeking in, holding a thermos.

“Mrs. Chen,” she whispered. “I snuck in. The nurse wouldn’t let non-family visit.”

I was so happy I tried to sit up. Pat quickly stopped me. “Don’t move. Just lie down.” She opened the thermos and a fragrant aroma filled the room. “I made chicken soup. It’s good for recovery.”

With Pat’s help, I drank a few sips. My stomach instantly felt warm.

“Where’s your son?” Pat looked around. “Why isn’t he here?”

“He went to buy something,” I said softly.

Pat pursed her lips. “You’re in the hospital and he has time to go shopping.” She lowered her voice. “Mrs. Chen, let me tell you something. My son was the same way. When I was sick, he was busy looking at houses with his wife.”

I shook my head with a bitter smile. “Pat, please don’t—”

“Okay. Let’s not talk about sad things.” Pat patted my hand. “Did you know Mr. Peterson had your ‘Harmony in the Family’ piece framed? He said he’s going to put it in the most prominent spot at the exhibition.”

I looked at her in surprise. “I wrote it so poorly.”

“Who says?” Pat’s eyes widened. “Mr. Peterson said your characters have a strong structure—that you must have practiced since you were a child.”

As we chatted, the door was pushed open. Julian stood there with a bag of fruit, clearly surprised to see Pat.

“And you are?”

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Chen. My name is Pat.” She stood, looking Julian up and down. “You must be her son, right? You look just like her.”

Julian nodded awkwardly. “Hello.”

“Thank you for visiting my mom,” Pat said meaningfully. “Mrs. Chen is very popular at our community center. Everyone loves her. You’re very lucky to have such a wonderful mother.”

Julian’s face turned red, then pale. He could only nod.

Pat stayed a little longer, then left. Before she went, she whispered to me, “Mrs. Chen, remember—if you need anything, just ask. We old folks may not have much money, but there’s strength in numbers.”

I squeezed her hand gratefully.

After Pat left, Julian silently peeled an apple, cut it into small pieces, and fed it to me. Neither of us mentioned the unpleasantness from before, but in the silence, something seemed to be changing.

At night, when the nurse came to give me an injection, Julian was asked to leave the room. When he came back, his face was unusually grim.

“What is it?” I asked.

Julian hesitated. “Clara called. She said Leo has a fever. She can’t leave, so she wants me to go back.”

My heart tightened. “Then go back. Leo is more important.”

“But you—”

“I’ll be fine,” I managed a smile. “The nurses are here.”

After a moment of internal conflict, Julian finally said, “Then I’ll go back and check. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.” He helped me adjust my bed, poured water, and placed it within reach. “Mom, if you need anything, just press the call button.”

Watching his retreating back, I had mixed feelings. When Leo was sick, he rushed back immediately. When I had a stroke, he hesitated. That was reality.

The night grew late. The room was quiet except for the monitor. The other bed was still empty. The moonlight shone coldly through the window. I tried to move my right hand. I could still only move my fingers slightly. The doctor said therapy could help, but how long would it take? Would there be lasting effects? If I became disabled, would Julian and Clara take care of me, or send me to a nursing home? These questions coiled around me, keeping me from sleep.

The next morning, the doctor made rounds. He said my condition was stable and I could start simple rehab exercises. A young therapist taught me how to move my fingers and toes. Although each movement was incredibly difficult, I gritted my teeth and persisted.

Julian didn’t show up until noon, his eyes bloodshot. “Leo’s fever went up to 102. It was a rough night.”

“And now?” I asked eagerly.

“He’s better,” Julian sat wearily. “Clara took the day off to take care of him.”

I nodded and said no more. Julian looked exhausted. He leaned back and soon dozed off.

In the afternoon, a community worker, Sarah, visited, bringing a basket of fruit.

“Mrs. Chen,” she walked quickly to my bedside. “I heard you were hospitalized. I’m here on behalf of the community to see you.”

I was surprised. “Sarah, how did you know?”

“Your son mentioned it when he came to the office to handle some paperwork,” Sarah lowered her voice. “Mrs. Chen, about the demolition—your son came yesterday and revoked the previous power of attorney. He said you would handle it personally after you’re discharged.”

I looked at sleeping Julian in surprise. I never expected him to do that on his own.

Sarah continued, “He also asked about legal protections for the elderly. Mrs. Chen, your son actually cares a lot about you.”

I shook my head with a bitter smile. “I hope so.”

Sarah talked about some recent community news and left her contact information before leaving, saying I could call her anytime.

In the evening, Clara actually came with Leo. His face was still a bit pale, but he was in good spirits. He called out, “Grandma!” as soon as he entered and rushed to my bedside.

“Be careful,” Clara quickly pulled him back. “Grandma is sick. You can’t touch her.”

I reached out my left hand and stroked Leo’s hair. “It’s okay, sweetie. Grandma’s fine. Is your fever gone?”

Leo nodded and took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “I drew this for Grandma.” On the paper was a crayon doodle of a person in a hospital bed with a smaller person standing next to it.

“It’s beautiful,” I praised him. “Grandma loves your drawings the most.”

Clara stood by, her expression complex. “Mom, are you feeling better?”

“Much better,” I said calmly, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. Leo’s illness had taken a toll on her, too.

“Um.” Clara wrung her hands. “Don’t worry about the medical bills. Julian and I discussed it. We’ll pay for it with… with our savings.”

I asked directly, “Not with the demolition money?”

Clara’s face flushed. “No. I mean with our savings.”

“Mommy, what’s demolition money?” Leo asked curiously.

“It’s nothing, Leo,” Clara quickly said. “Do you want an apple? Mommy will peel one for you.”

Watching Clara’s flustered state, I found it somewhat amusing. The once assertive daughter-in-law was now timid in front of me. Was it because I was sick—or had Julian stepped up?

They didn’t stay long, afraid of tiring Leo. Before leaving, Clara said for the first time, “Mom, you rest well. Call if you need anything.”

I nodded without saying much. Change doesn’t happen overnight, but at least this was a start.

That night, Julian stayed with me. I woke in the middle of the night to find him sitting in the chair by my bed, looking at something in the dim light. I looked closer and saw it was the growth album I made for him from birth to college. Next to each photo, I had written the date and a little story. He was so engrossed he didn’t notice I was awake. In the moonlight, I saw him wipe his eyes.

At that moment, I understood—my son might have lost his way, but deep down, he was still the boy who would cry over an album his mother made. The adult world was too complicated. Marriage, career, children—the pressure made him forget his original self.

I gently closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. In a corner of my heart, the ice began to melt.

On the seventh day of my hospital stay, I could lift my right hand slightly. Although I couldn’t hold anything yet, the therapist said I was making great progress. Julian came almost every day—sometimes with soup, sometimes just sitting quietly during my therapy. Clara visited twice more, always with Leo. Her attitude was much softer than before, but her eyes always held a hint of caution, as if on guard against me bringing up the money.

That afternoon, I was practicing gripping a rubber ball when Mr. Peterson appeared at the door.

“Mrs. Chen,” he walked over. “You’re looking much better.”

I put down the ball, surprised and happy. “Mr. Peterson, what brings you here?”

“I came to bring you this.” He took a photo from his briefcase—it was from the exhibition at the community center. The ‘Harmony in the Family’ piece I wrote was framed and placed in the center of the display. “Everyone misses you very much,” Mr. Peterson smiled. “Pat talks about you every day. Says the tea parties aren’t the same without Mrs. Chen.”

I stroked the photo, my nose tingling. “Please thank everyone for me.”

Mr. Peterson then told me that after seeing the exhibition, the community invited the senior center to host a calligraphy class—and they specifically requested me as a teaching assistant.

“Me?” I stared in disbelief. “I’ve only had a few lessons.”

“You have a gift,” he winked. “And the residents all like you.”

As we talked, Julian pushed the door open and was surprised to see Mr. Peterson.

“This is James Peterson, my mom’s calligraphy teacher,” I introduced them.

Mr. Peterson extended his hand. “Julian Chen.”

Julian shook his hand, his expression complex. “Thank you for visiting my mom.”

“Mrs. Chen is our pride and joy,” Mr. Peterson patted my shoulder. “Her calligraphy is improving by leaps and bounds. She’s the star student in our class.”

Julian looked at me in astonishment. “Mom, you’re that good?”

I felt embarrassed. “Mr. Peterson is exaggerating.”

Mr. Peterson stayed a little longer, then left, saying that when I was discharged, they would hold a welcome party for me. Julian walked him to the elevator and came back looking thoughtful.

“Mom,” he sat by my bed, “you really love calligraphy, don’t you?”

I nodded. “I loved it when I was young. I just never had the chance to learn.”

Julian was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, “Mom, I’m sorry. I never knew you had this hobby.”

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “You’re busy with work. I understand.”

This seemed to sting him. He lowered his head, his hands clenched. “No, Mom. It’s because I wasn’t paying attention. I’ve always seen you as Mom, but I forgot that you are also Eleanor.”

I looked at him, surprised he would say that.

“Julian.”

“Mom,” he looked up, his eyes red, “when you’re discharged, let’s have a proper talk—about the money, about the future. I have some thoughts.”

I nodded, feeling hopeful and anxious. What would be the outcome? Reconciliation—or a new round of games?

Three days later, the doctor approved my discharge. Although my right hand hadn’t fully recovered, I could manage daily life. Julian and Clara came to pick me up together. Leo didn’t come because he had preschool. When I got home, the house was clean and tidy, with a bouquet on the dining table. Clara, for the first time, cooked—making a few light dishes.

“Mom,” Julian cleared his throat at dinner. “Clara and I discussed it. After you’ve rested, we’ll have a family meeting to clear things up.”

“We can talk now,” I said, putting down my chopsticks.

Julian and Clara exchanged a look. Then Julian said, “All right. About the money—we’ve decided to respect your wishes.”

“Respect your wishes?” Clara suddenly interrupted. “Mom, we found a three-bedroom apartment not far from here. The neighborhood is very nice.” She took out a brochure. “The master bedroom is south-facing with a balcony.”

I opened it. It was a new apartment building—three bedrooms, two living rooms. It was nice.

“We’ve done the math,” Clara said eagerly. “After the money comes, we’ll give you one-third. The rest is just enough for the down payment. Julian and I will pay the mortgage.”

I closed the brochure and looked her in the eye. “Where is my room?”

Clara was taken aback, then pointed to the floor plan. “This secondary bedroom gets plenty of sunlight. It’s not the basement anymore.”

“I asked directly—‘not the basement anymore?’”

Clara’s face turned beet red. “Mom, you misheard that day. We never thought about—”

“Clara,” I interrupted calmly. “Let’s not lie to each other anymore. What I heard, what I saw—I’m clear about it.”

The table fell silent. The atmosphere was thick. Julian hung his head. Clara bit her lip.

“Mom,” Julian finally spoke, “we were wrong. We were really wrong. I’ve thought a lot. The night you were hospitalized, I looked through the album you made for me. Next to every photo, you wrote the date and a story—from my birth until now.” His voice choked. “It was only then I realized you remember every important moment of my life, but I didn’t even know you liked calligraphy.”

Clara shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

“Also,” Julian continued, “that day Mr. Peterson came to see you. He said you were their pride and joy. I felt… jealous. My mother is such a treasure in others’ eyes—why did she become a burden in mine?”

My eyes welled up, but I held back the tears.

“Mom,” Julian grabbed my hand. “Give me a chance to make it up to you. I know I hurt you, but I really regret it.”

Clara suddenly stood. “I’ll—I’ll go check if Leo’s clothes are washed,” she said, and hurried out. Julian watched her leave and sighed.

“Clara knows she was wrong, too. She’s just too proud to admit it.”

I shook my head. “Julian, change takes time. A simple ‘I was wrong’ can’t erase all the hurt.”

“Then what should we do?” Julian asked. “How can we make you forgive us?”

“It’s not about forgiveness,” I said softly. “It’s about rebuilding trust.” I took out my phone, found a photo, and showed it to him—a senior living community, well-equipped with a medical center, activity rooms, and a garden.

“I looked into this while I was in the hospital,” I explained. “I want to use my share to pay the fees here and move in.”

Julian’s face changed drastically. “Mom, you’re going to leave us?”

“Not leave,” I shook my head. “But find a lifestyle that’s more suitable for me. There, I’ll have my own space and can participate in activities. You can visit me anytime. Leo can stay over on weekends.”

Julian was at a loss for words. “Didn’t we agree to live in the new house together?”

“Julian,” I held his hand, “a mother-son relationship doesn’t end because we live apart. On the contrary, a little distance might be good for both of us.”

Julian lowered his head in pain. “Mom, you don’t trust us anymore, do you?”

I was silent for a moment, then answered honestly. “Yes—at least not enough right now. But this isn’t the end. It’s a new beginning.”

Clara had returned to the doorway at some point and overheard. To my surprise, she didn’t object. Instead, she said softly, “Mom, if you really want to live in a retirement home, we can help you choose a better one.”

“It’s not a retirement home,” I corrected. “It’s a senior living community. They have activities, people my age to socialize with, and professional staff.”

“But Leo will miss you,” Clara said weakly.

“I’ll come back often to see him,” I said with a smile. “Or you can bring him to my place to play. A little distance in a relationship might be better than being crammed together and complaining.”

Julian and Clara looked at each other, not knowing how to respond.

“Also,” I continued, “I plan to use part of the money to set up an education fund for Leo—specifically for his future schooling.”

Clara’s eyes lit up. “Really, Mom?”

“Of course,” I nodded. “He’s my grandson. I love him.”

This seemed to touch Clara. Her eyes turned red and she suddenly started to cry. “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I handed her a tissue and didn’t say much. Some wounds need time to heal. Some trust needs actions.

That night, we reached a preliminary agreement. After the money came, forty percent would be mine for the senior community fees and Leo’s education fund. Sixty percent would go to Julian and his family for their new house. The new house would have a room reserved for me and I could stay there anytime. As for the senior community, I planned to try living there for three months to see if it suited me.

Before bed, Julian came to my room holding an old box. “Mom, I found this when I was cleaning the study.”

I opened it. Inside were my paintings and design sketches from when I was young. Some had yellowed, but they were well preserved. I had completely forgotten.

“You see,” Julian said softly, “you were so talented once—but you gave it all up for me and Dad.”

I stroked the drawings, memories flooding back. “Yes, I once had dreams, hobbies, and an identity other than mother and wife.”

“Mom,” Julian knelt before me, looking up like he did as a child. “I support your decision to go to the senior community. Not because I don’t want to take care of you, but because I want you to find yourself again—to be as happy as you are at the community center.”

My tears finally fell, dripping onto those youthful dreams. Julian hugged me, gently patting my back, just like I used to comfort him. At that moment, I felt like I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe we really could find a new way to get along—not through sacrifice or demands, but through mutual respect and fulfillment.

Three months later, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the calligraphy piece I had just finished. The four large characters—Spring Blossoms, Autumn Fruits—stretched across the paper, the ink still wet, glistening in the sun.

“Mrs. Chen, this piece is magnificent,” Mr. Peterson stood beside me, full of praise. “Your brushwork is becoming more and more steady.”

I put down my brush and flexed my right wrist. After continuous physical therapy, my right hand had recovered eighty percent of its function. Writing and painting were no longer a problem.

“Let’s use this one for next week’s community exhibition,” I said with a smile.

“Excellent.” Mr. Peterson helped me roll up the paper. “By the way, for tomorrow’s intergenerational event, is your son confirmed to attend?”

I nodded. “He said he would come.”

Three months ago, I moved into this high-end senior community. Although Julian accepted my decision, he was reluctant. He brought Leo to visit a few times, always in a hurry. Clara came once. I knew they were still adjusting to this new way of living.

“Take it slow,” Mr. Peterson said, as if reading my mind. “It takes time to mend family rifts.”

As we spoke, my phone rang. It was a message from Julian: Mom, what time does the event start tomorrow? I took a half day off.

I replied with the time, a flicker of anticipation in my heart. I had proposed this intergenerational event, inviting family members to visit the community, understand the lives of the elderly, and promote mutual understanding. Many residents’ children agreed to come, but I was most concerned about Julian’s attitude.

The next morning, the activity center was decorated warmly and grandly. The walls were adorned with residents’ calligraphy and paintings, and long tables were set with pastries and fruit. As one of the organizers, I arrived early to help.

At ten, family members began to arrive. Pat’s son came with his grandson. Another resident’s daughter came, pushing her father in a wheelchair. I kept looking toward the entrance, searching for Julian.

“Don’t be nervous,” Pat patted my shoulder. “Your son will come.”

Sure enough, around 10:30, Julian appeared at the entrance alone, wearing a casual suit and holding a bouquet of flowers. I went to greet him. He handed me the flowers somewhat shyly.

“There was traffic.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you came.”

I took the flowers and showed him around—the calligraphy display, the handicraft booth, the wall of photos. His gaze lingered on my calligraphy.

“Mom, did you really write this?” He pointed to the “Harmony in the Family” piece, his voice filled with disbelief.

“Of course,” I said proudly. “Mr. Peterson says I have a talent for it.”

Julian shook his head and smiled. “In my memory, you only knew how to do housework and take care of Leo. I never knew.”

“People have many sides, don’t they?” I said softly. “Just like you are not only Clara’s husband, Leo’s father, and a manager at your company, but also my son.”

Julian nodded thoughtfully.

After the event began, I went onstage as a representative to speak about my life in the senior community—the calligraphy class, tea parties, fitness courses—and how these activities helped me rediscover my self-worth. In the audience, I saw Julian listening intently, his expression softening.

“Many children think that bringing their parents to live with them is the definition of filial piety,” I continued. “But sometimes a little distance and independent space can make family relationships healthier. Here I am not only a mother and grandmother, but also Eleanor—a student in the calligraphy class, an organizer of community events.”

After my speech, there was thunderous applause. Julian stood in the back row, clapping particularly hard, his eyes shining.

During free time, he took the initiative to find Mr. Peterson and ask about my studies, chatted with Pat to learn about my daily life, and even tried the desserts from the cafeteria, saying they were better than the café downstairs from his office.

“Mom,” he said, holding my hand after the event, “can I see your room?”

I took him to my little apartment—a one-bedroom, not large, but with great lighting. The walls were decorated with my calligraphy. My desk was set up with art supplies, and the balcony had potted plants.

“This is really nice,” Julian looked around, his tone sincere. “Much better than I imagined.”

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“I do,” he nodded. “I can tell you’re very happy here.”

We sat at the small dining table. I brewed a pot of tea. Julian took a file folder out of his bag.

“Mom, the demolition money came through yesterday. As we agreed, this is your share.”

I took the file. It contained the bank transfer receipt and a copy of the new property deed. The new house was registered in all three of our names, with a room reserved for me as promised.

“Clara wanted to bring it over herself,” Julian said, a little embarrassed, “but she had to work late.”

I knew it was an excuse, but didn’t expose it. “Please thank her for me.”

Julian took a sip of tea and suddenly said, “Mom, I’ve thought a lot these past three months. Seeing you so happy here, I feel both happy and guilty.”

“Why guilty?”

“Because I never thought about what you needed,” he looked down. “I only knew how to take from you—help with the baby, the housework—but I forgot that you have your own life and dreams.”

I patted his hand. “It’s not too late to know now.”

“Mom,” Julian looked up, his eyes red, “can I see that growth album—the one you made for me?”

I took the album from the shelf and handed it to him. Julian flipped through it page by page—from his birth to his first month; from his first steps to his first day of school. Next to each photo was the date and a little story.

When he reached the last few pages, Julian suddenly froze. There were a few photos he had no memory of—his college graduation, where I stood beside him, smiling radiantly; his wedding day, where Arthur and I posed with him, tears in our eyes; when Leo was born, where I held the newborn, my face full of happiness.

“These were all important moments in your life,” I said softly. “I’ve always treasured them.”

Julian’s tears finally fell, dripping onto the photos. “Mom, I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

I hugged him, patting his back like I did when he was a child. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”

That afternoon, we talked for a long time—about funny stories of Arthur, about why I moved in with them, about his feelings of being overwhelmed by work and family. The three-hour conversation was more in-depth than all our communication over the past three years.

Before he left, Julian hugged me tightly. “Mom, I’ll bring Leo to see you next week. Can Clara come, too?”

“Of course,” I smiled. “I’ll teach Leo to write with a brush.”

After seeing Julian off, I returned to my desk, opened my journal, and wrote down my feelings from the day: Julian came to the event today. He’s changed. He’s starting to truly see me. At sixty-eight, my life seems to have just begun. I have something I love, my own space, and a family I can see any time. It turns out that old age isn’t about waiting to be taken care of, but about rediscovering your own worth.

Closing my journal, I looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow on the community garden. A few elderly residents were strolling and chatting. Their laughter carried on the wind. I picked up my brush and wrote four large characters on a fresh sheet of paper:

Free and at peace.