When my son begged to have his birthday party at my house, I agreed without hesitation. The next day, when my house was in ruins and my heart was broken, my 80-year-old neighbor knew what to do.
Your child should never treat you like a stranger. Stuart experienced that at some point. Sometimes I thought it was just growing up, moving out, and being busy.
I avoided taking it personally. In my heart, I missed the youngster who brought me daisies from the garden and carried groceries without asking.
Even though he called rarely, I expected a quick check-in. However, his tone was nearly warm that day.
Saying “Hey, Mom,” “I wondered. My apartment is small, so I wanted to have a birthday party. Nothing insane. Few buddies. Can I utilize your house?”
My heart jumped for the first time in years. Maybe I should have asked more questions or declined. But I only heard my son reaching out. Yes, I said.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be at Martha’s anyway, so you’ll have the place to yourselves.”
No loud music that night. Martha’s yard and trees masked most sounds at her house, a considerable walk away.
This evening, I helped mom with her crossword puzzle and watched old culinary shows.
She fell asleep in her recliner, and I cuddled up with a blanket in the guest room, hoping my kid was having fun with his friends and that things could change.
Perhaps Stuart and I might reunite.
Was wrong.
I left Martha’s back door to brisk morning air. Janine, her attendant, was cooking coffee, so I said goodbye and promised to return her glass casserole dish.
Walking home on the gravel path, my boots crunched quietly. The front of my house appeared a minute later.
I paused mid-step.
It seemed like someone kicked in my front door, which barely hung on its hinges. A front window was shattered.
I couldn’t figure out the siding’s burn damage, and my chest clenched.
I sped up and started running.
The inside was awful.
The cabinet my husband built before his death was torched and missing a piece. Smashed dishes littered the kitchen floor.
A mess of beer cans, broken glass, and ash covered my hand-embroidered couch cushions.
I remained transfixed with keys in my fingers, wondering how 30-somethings could ruin the place.
I noticed the note.
It was folded in half on the counter with Stuart’s handwriting on it.
We had a crazy celebration to bid goodbye to our youth. You may need to clean up.”
No screaming. I didn’t cry then. I put my keys on the floor, grabbed my phone, and called him. Straight to voicemail.
Knowing he wouldn’t acknowledge messages, I called again. Finally, I left him a message.
“Stuart,” I said into the phone, trying to sound even but failing. You must call me. Right now. What happened?”
I called again.
The tenth time, I cried.
“Stuart! After your actions, you can’t ignore me! How could?! After your father died, I worked hard to pay off and raise you in this mansion! If you don’t correct this, I’ll sue you for every dime! You hear me?! I’ll sue!”
After leaving that message, I collapsed, gasping.
I had weak knees and shaking hands.
I closed my eyes to avoid glancing at the place I’d lived for 20 years, which now resembled Stuart’s apocalypse flicks.
I don’t know how long I sat in the filth. After calming down, I stood and grabbed a dustpan from beneath the sink to pick up broken glass.
Around an hour later, I saw Martha and her attendant heading up the drive through the broken window. Always walked with Janine in the mornings, gently but steadily.
She froze today.
My house looked like a corpse to her.
“Martha?” Stepping outdoors, I brushed glass from my sweatshirt. My voice broke. “It’s… It’s bad. Stuart ruined my party. It’s chaos. I may not be able to join afternoon tea.”
A long time passed without blinking. I felt her hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, my dear Nadine,” she replied, her voice subdued and angry. “You must visit later. We must talk.”
Despite not knowing what to talk about, I nodded.
She turned to walk back with Janine after nodding.
A few hours later, I walked the long way to Martha’s estate, wiping dust from my clothes and attempting to look like I hadn’t cried all morning.
Janine welcomed me in via her large front door with a tiny smile.
Martha sat in her favorite wingback chair with tea on her saucer. I received a hearty nod. Please sit, Nadine. Stuart is also invited. He’ll arrive soon.”
I didn’t think my son would come, but she was right—I heard a car engine growl outside a minute later.
I should’a known. Stuart always wanted Martha’s money and home. He ran for her while my voicemails and calls went unanswered.
My son entered with sunglasses and a confident smile. “Hey, Martha,” he laughed. “You wanted to see me?”
“Sit,” she urged, pointing to the unoccupied couch.
He landed on it with a bounce, staring at Martha while I stared at him suspiciously.
My friendly neighbor said before I could respond. She began, “I’ve made a decision,” kneeling. “I’m retiring. I’ve resisted long enough; Janine’s helping me choose a decent one.”
Oh, no. I would miss her.
Stuart sat up upright. “Wow, yes? A big step.”
She nods. “It is. Going to sell the house. No, I thought. Would rather give it to someone I trust.”
My son’s eyebrows rose. Like me, he knew Martha had no family.
“I wanted to give my house to you, Stuart.”
He jumped up. Are you serious?! Martha, that’s amazing! Thank you! Wow, this site is magnificent.”
Hand reared by Martha.
“But,” she said, freezing the room, “after I saw with my own eyes what you did to your mother’s house and the state she was in this morning… I’ve changed my mind.”
My son froze.
Martha looked at me. She placed a gentle hand on my but kept talking to Stuart.
“I’m giving it to her… and most of my fortune when I die, so she won’t worry about money again.”
Stuart opened his mouth. “Wait—what?! No! We had some fun last night “He stuttered, his voice rising. Nothing we did couldn’t be fixed or cleaned up! Martha, you know me. I swear, it’s a misunderstanding.”
“You’d better lower your voice in my house, young man,” Martha said.
He paused and inhaled before speaking again. “I can explain,” he began, but Martha’s hand raised again.
She answered, “No, I’ve made my decision,” more seriously. “And honestly, after what you pulled, I’m glad I never had kids of my own.”
That statement shocked me, and the room grew quiet.
Martha and I discussed her life countless times. I inquired if she regretted not having children to get money. She never promised to change, but her tone was regretful.
I always assumed she doubted, but now I know. Her voice ended.
He changed after a minute of awkward quiet.
“Fine! Keep your dumb money!” he yelled, glaring at us. Don’t need it! I need neither of you!”
Storming out, he slammed the hefty front door.
Silence returned. But it was different. Tension was gone.
I gazed at my hands, kneading them to avoid sobbing, and then I looked at Martha.
“I don’t know what to say,” I muttered.
She smiled sweetly. “No need to speak, Nadine. You deserved it. Over the years, you’ve been my most lovely buddy. Nobody deserves it more than you.”
This time, I nodded and cried. But I wasn’t sure if these were happy tears.
I was grateful for my life’s biggest gift, but my son had treated me cruelly.
That knowledge didn’t satisfy me. I didn’t raise him that way. But I couldn’t act then.
I’d have to savor this bittersweet moment.
Another tale: Music, laughing, and love filled my husband’s birthday until my sister began a toast. What she said next shattered the room. Single sentence. One secret. Three marriages ended before the cake was cut.
Inspired by true events and people, this work is fictionalized for creativity. To preserve privacy and enrich the story, names, characters, and facts were changed. Any resemblance to real people, events, or places is unintentional.
The author and publisher neither guarantee event authenticity nor character characterization and are not liable for misinterpretation. This work is presented “as is,” and the characters’ opinions do not reflect those of the author or publisher.