My name is Helen. After my husband died, my health declined, and I sold the home we’d built together to move in with my son Mark, his wife Laura, and their children. I gave nearly all the money from my house to renovate theirs and spent years caring for the home and the kids while Laura worked late. Mark always made me feel wanted. Laura never did.
Then Mark was killed in a car accident. Just days after the funeral, Laura told me to leave. She said the house was hers now and that she never wanted me there. The next morning, my suitcases were packed by the door. With nowhere to go, I ended up in a senior shelter, broken and alone.
Weeks later, a man named David found me. He’d worked with Mark and had something to give me: a trust Mark had secretly set up to make sure I’d always be safe. It was enough to buy a small home and live independently. Years later, Laura came to apologize, having lost everything herself. I felt no anger—only peace. In the end, my son protected me the only way he could: by giving me the chance to stand on my own.