“Vion’s parents,” she said softly. “They’ve been hinting I should move to a nursing home. I overheard them talking about it last night.”

“Mom, that’s too far,” I said, furious. “Want me to tell them to leave?”

She gave a clever smile. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll take care of it.”

A few days later, Sylva called us, sobbing. “How could your mom do this to us?”

Apparently, Mom had told them to move their stuff to the first floor because she was “ready” for a nursing home, saying she wanted an easier life. Vion’s parents thought they’d won.

But Mom had a plan. She’d called social services, reporting two people staying with her temporarily who needed help.

The next day, social services showed up at Mom’s doorstep, ready to move Sylva and Dren to a social housing unit.

They were furious.

Vion and I rushed to Mom’s house because they demanded to see us.

“This is ridiculous!” Sylva shouted, her face red, pacing the living room like a trapped animal. “We thought we were moving downstairs, not out of the house!”

“How dare she trick us!” Dren yelled, slamming his fist on the table, his voice shaking with rage. “We’ve done so much for her these months!”

Vion flinched beside me, torn between his parents and the truth. I saw the pain in his eyes, caught in the middle.

“You took advantage of her kindness and tried to push her into a nursing home!” I snapped, my anger boiling. “You got what you deserved!”

“You can’t just kick us out!” Sylva screamed, her voice cracking, tears streaming as the social workers stood calmly by.

Mom sat in her wheelchair, a small smile on her face. “You’ve got a new place now,” she said. “And honestly, that’s not my concern. I helped you, and all you did was complain. You didn’t want to be here—you were just stuck. Now you can manage on your own.”

Sylva’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide with shock, like she’d been slapped. Dren stood frozen, his face a mix of anger and shame, knowing the whole neighborhood would hear about this.

The social workers stepped in, calmly explaining the housing setup—a small apartment near their jobs. They’d be fine, but they were too busy yelling to see it.

As they stormed out, still ranting, it was clear they’d lost this fight.

“I’m sorry,” Vion told Mom later, as we helped her settle in. “This is my fault.”

Mom took his hand, shaking her head. “It’s not your fault, Vion. They needed a place, and I welcomed them. But they made things hard here. Everything was a problem.”

While they talked, I busied myself in the kitchen, making Vion’s favorite curry to cheer him up. Deep down, I felt guilty too. I should’ve stopped them from moving in, but we were desperate to help when they lost their home. Maybe it was guilt from not taking them in ourselves.

That night, as we got into bed, I told Vion we should check on his parents. “Even after this, we need to make sure they’re okay,” I said.