She excelled in school, graduated with honors, and became a lawyer. When she married a man named Oliver, they bought a spacious house in a good neighborhood, with a garden out front and a two-car garage. I was proud beyond words.

When I retired from my job at the grocery store after nearly thirty years, I thought I would finally rest. My body was tired, my knees ached, and my savings were meager. My plan was simple: move in with Leona and help around the house. She had once told me, back when she was in college, “Don’t worry, Mom. One day I’ll take care of you the way you took care of me.” I clung to that promise.

But people change. Promises fade.

At first, living with her wasn’t so bad. I cooked meals, kept the house tidy, and sometimes picked her kids up from school. Her husband, though polite, seemed distant, as if I were an intruder in his carefully curated life. Over time, the air grew heavier. I noticed the way he frowned when I sat in “his” chair, or how his smile never quite reached his eyes when I joined family dinners.

Then Leona began dropping subtle hints. “Mom, maybe you should think about getting your own place.” Or, “We just don’t have as much space as we thought.” I brushed them off, thinking they were temporary frustrations. But the hints turned into firm statements. And finally, the ultimatum: “There’s no room for you here anymore. You have to leave.”

And so, I did.