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I raised Marco alone after his father passed away at sea. For years, I washed laundry by hand, sold groceries, and worked as a maid to keep us afloat. Every coin I saved went toward Marco’s schooling and the small house we finally called our own.
That house — the one they now wished me gone from — had been built from twenty years of exhaustion and prayer.
I had dreamed that when Marco grew up and had a family, I’d live peacefully surrounded by laughter. But standing there, I realized that to my daughter-in-law, I wasn’t a blessing. I was a burden.
Quietly, I put the bank booklet back in my pocket. Without saying a word, I left the house that morning — my home, my son, everything familiar.
