My son was only thirty-three when we finally accepted that his sickness was not going away. At first, it seemed minor—tiredness, pain, and many doctor visits. Then the doctor gave us the diagnosis, and our lives changed instantly.
His wife showed no emotion. She didn’t cry, ask questions, or stay by his side. One day, she stood by the door and said she would not spend her life watching him slowly die. Then she left and never said goodbye.
I sold my house to pay for his care. I used all my money for treatments and to make him comfortable. I learned how to feed him, lift him, clean him, and care for him with respect. I slept next to his bed and held his hand through painful nights, reminding him he was loved.
I was the only one who stayed.
When he died, it was peaceful. He squeezed my hand, tried to smile, and silently said “thank you.” Those were his last words.
After the funeral, his wife came back, focused only on property and money. Legally, everything they owned together went to her. Then she told me I had to leave the house within a week.
As I packed, I found a hidden shoebox under his bed. Inside were documents showing my son owned another house, bought before his marriage. There was also his will and a note.
In the note, he told me how much he loved me. He explained that he gave his wife the house they shared so she would not be homeless, even after she abandoned him. But he gave the other house to me so I would be safe.
He also left me enough money to live without fear after I had spent everything caring for him.
Even at the end, my son chose kindness and fairness. He held no anger. He was grateful to those who stayed.
I miss him deeply, and the pain is still there. But I am proud.
I raised a good man.