Off The Record
My DIL Kicked Me Out After My Son Died—She Never Knew The Secret He Left Behind
Instead of sleeping on a cot in a homeless shelter, I hoped to spend my golden years with my loved ones. However, loss has a way of revealing secrets and truths that I never anticipated.
I’m Helen, and I’m seventy-two years old. Ten years ago, I would have laughed in your face and poured you a cup of coffee from my own comfortable kitchen if you had told me that I would one day be sleeping on a small cot in a senior shelter. But that’s how funny life is. It steals everything you hold dear, silently rips it away, and then watches to see if you can rise again.
I had a full life once. Mark, my kid, was the joy of my existence. In addition, my spouse, George, constructed our family home himself. Memories abound in that location, in every creaking step and dent in the bannister.
There, we raised Mark, celebrated tiny successes over tea and cornbread on Sunday afternoons, hosted birthdays, and grieved losses.
After then, George died of cancer. Through every procedure and every sleepless night, I clutched his hand.
There was a louder hush in the home than I had ever experienced when he left. I sincerely tried to stay, but the loneliness and the severe winters got worse every year.
I was reminded of my late husband everywhere. His favourite cup on the counter, his window-facing chair, and the soft hum of his voice as he reads the paper each morning. The old house was filled with memories and creaking floors.
The steps were getting steeper every day, and my knees weren’t as strong as they once were.
By then, Mark, his wife Laura, and their two children had relocated to the city.
“Mom, you shouldn’t be alone,” he urged over the phone one evening. Join us live. “There’s more than enough space. Laura and I would feel better knowing you’re safe, and the kids will love having you,” I nearly replied.
I had always been friendly but never close to my daughter-in-law (DIL), but I assured myself that with the children around, things would be different. I gave in because I would have a purpose once more. In addition, I was no longer able to live alone due to my condition.
The most difficult thing I had ever done was sell the house. The day I gave the new owners the keys, I started crying. That house had more than just furnishings; it included my pride, my motherhood, and 40 years with George.
However, I persuaded myself that the funds would contribute to the creation of something new—a life with my family.
I never thought I would be forced out of it.
The majority of the proceeds from the sale of my previous home were used to remodel Mark and Laura’s home. The garden appeared to be a jungle, the kitchen was small, the roof leaked, and the guest room needed renovation.
Together, Mark and I selected paint colours. With a smile, he declared, “We’re making this house a home for all of us.”
I wanted to believe him, so I did.
For the first few years, everything was going well. I prepared dinner, did the washing, and assisted with the children. I didn’t expect Laura to thank me, but she never really did.
However, I noticed that she treated me as though I were a piece of antique furniture that had been brought into the house. Something you held onto until it started to cause problems.
Although Mark was always kind, he either didn’t see his wife’s actions or didn’t want to. After the kids went to bed, he would still join me at the kitchen table despite his long work hours.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mom,” he would say as he sipped his tea and rubbed the back of his neck.
Everything was worthwhile because of those moments.
The children adored me as well. They made me feel like I belonged and called me Grandma Helen. We cooked lopsided cookies that made them laugh so hard they fell over, created castles out of couch cushions, and held dance parties in the living room.
I persevered because of those afternoons.
However, Laura’s tone became more icy over time. It was little stuff at start.
“Helen, could you not leave dishes in the washbasin?”
“Helen, the kids are too hyper after you let them have sweets.”
“Helen, don’t fold Mark’s shirts like that.”
I dismissed it. I convinced myself she was under strain. She ran all over the state for her law practice. I assumed she was simply worn out from working late and perhaps even envious of the children’s intense attachment to me.
She arrived home early one evening to find us all dancing to a Motown song in the kitchen. I spun the wooden spoons like we were on a stage as the children giggled and held them like microphones.
With her arms folded and her gaze as cold as ice, Laura stood in the doorway. Simply put, “You’re going to spoil them,” she warned. “Life isn’t all fun and games.”
She began returning home earlier and earlier after that. She would correct the children in front of me and break up bedtime readings. Such passive-aggressive remarks as “Don’t you think it’s time they stop depending on you so much?” were even posed by Laura.
Mark was always in the middle and didn’t say much. I smiled through it all because I didn’t want him to feel like he had to choose a side.
Then everything was different.
It was an autumn Thursday. I can recall this because the phone rang right after I had taken the banana bread out of the oven. Anticipating a school call, I picked it up and used a dish towel to clean my hands.
Rather, I heard the voice of a man.
“Mrs. Harris?” he asked softly. “This is Officer Grant. Unfortunately, there has been an accident.”
My heart broke into bits and my knees gave way. Mark was struck on the motorway. In his lane, a delivery truck veered.
They claimed he didn’t suffer and that it happened quickly.
I didn’t believe them because I couldn’t fathom that my son could be here in the morning and gone by evening, not because I believed they were lying.
When Laura received the call, she shouted. The children were unable to comprehend. When would Daddy be home? they asked often.
For the next few days, I held them, answered the door, and tried not to let my own sadness overwhelm me.
The funeral was a haze. All of my son’s neighbours, friends, and coworkers were saying the same things.
“He was such a good man.”
“He loved his family so much.”
Yes, he did. He did.
It didn’t take long for Laura to alter after that.
Only a few days later, it took place. Her grief grew icy. She stopped crying and stopped staring at me. Rather, she concentrated on the mortgage, insurance documents, and meal delivery services.
I made an effort to avoid her.
I overheard her talking on the phone in the hallway one evening. She spoke in a shrill, worn-out tone.
“With her still here, I can’t do this. She seems to be a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.”
The remarks were like a kick to the gut.
I stayed, nevertheless, for the children. I was necessary to them. Or perhaps I required them.
However, Laura sat me down after dinner a week later. Her supper had not been touched.
“Helen,” she said, “I think it’s time.”
I blinked. “Time for what?”
Her throat was cleansed. “A change is needed. You’ve accomplished a lot. I understand that this is difficult, but I believe that moving out would be best for everyone.”
I was unable to talk. My throat tightened. “Laura, this is also my home,” I muttered. “I sold my house and gave you everything.”
She didn’t recoil. “You made that choice. That wasn’t necessary for you to accomplish. But Helen, you can’t stay here any longer. There are too many people in the house. I would like to live alone with the children.”
It was there, aloof and contemptuous. As if I were a renter who had stayed too long.
She got up and left the room when I attempted to object.
I cried so hard that night that I couldn’t sleep.
When I went downstairs after hearing a commotion the following morning, I discovered Laura had packed my bags and they were waiting by the door!
“I’ve already hired a cab and packed your belongings.” “It will arrive in ten minutes,” she stated plainly.
“How can you say that, sweetie? I don’t know where to go.” My voice faltered.
It was always Mark’s plan for you to live here. “I will no longer tolerate it,” she answered.
She didn’t bid farewell. She kept my departure from the children a secret. I informed them that I would be spending some time with an old friend.
It was a falsehood. But if they knew the truth, I couldn’t stand to see their faces.
It was a calm taxi ride. For the first time in my life, I realised I had no answer when the driver asked where I was going. “Take me to the nearest senior shelter,” I finally offered. My mouth felt strange when I spoke those words.
Although the shelter was clean, there was a slight odour of bleach and old linoleum. They gave me a bowl of lukewarm soup, a shared locker, and a cot in the corner. I didn’t voice any complaints. My heart was exploding from the agony, and I was too exhausted to.
I slipped a tiny picture of Mark and the children under my pillow and kept my suitcase next to my bed. I woke up that first night to the sounds of faraway murmuring, creaking mattresses, and coughing. I was just empty; I wasn’t scared.
I became used to the rhythm throughout the course of the following few days. Lights out by 9 p.m., breakfast at 7 a.m., and tasks if you would like to assist. I offered to help with everything. I assisted with folding bedding, sweeping the floor, and organising the pantry.
I felt less invisible as a result.
I assisted an elderly woman one morning in locating a matching pair of shoes in the donation bin. Grasping my hand, she remarked, “You’re an angel.”
I felt like a ghost on the inside, yet I smiled. I was unsure of how to continue living my life.
Then everything changed one wet afternoon.
The front door opened as I was sewing a button onto a donated child’s jumper in the common area by the window. After hearing footsteps, I heard a chair being gently scraped away.
“Is there a Helen Harris here?” a man’s voice asked the attendant.
At first, I didn’t look up. She responded, however, “Yes, she’s just over there, near the window.”
Slowly, I turned. There was a man with a leather briefcase in his hands. He was tall, well-groomed, and had a pricey appearance. His gentle, sympathetic eyes examined me. He reminded me of someone I should have known.
“Mrs. Harris?” he said as he approached me. “You might not recall me. David Collins is my name. I used to work at the firm with your son, Mark.”
I blinked quickly. “Yes, David! You used to occasionally join us for dinner. You always lost to Mark in chess and brought Laura wine that she didn’t like.”
He chuckled quietly. “That sounds about right.”
I put down the jumper. “Why are you here, David?”
“I have been trying to find you. Laura informed me that you were no longer residing at the house when I visited. Nobody appeared to be aware of your whereabouts. After asking around, I was able to locate someone at the company who recalled that you had previously mentioned volunteering at a shelter. I made some calls and, well, here I am.”
I continued to attempt to understand while I gazed at him. “But why? The years have passed.”
He opened his briefcase and sat opposite me. “Because of this.” He produced a sealed envelope and a hefty folder. “This was left for you by your son. It belonged to his own property. He requested that I personally deliver it.”
I gasped. “Mark left something for me?”
David gave a nod. “Yes. In your name, he established a trust. He wanted you to never be concerned about security or money.” “I want my mum to be taken care of no matter what,” he said to me.
Feeling overwhelmed, I slowly shook my head. “Laura never said a word.”
He cast his gaze downward. “I am aware. The separate account was unknown to her. Mark instructed me to become involved personally, but he kept it confidential.”
He gave the documents to me.
Opening them made my hands shake. My head was spinning with the figures. It was more than I could have ever dreamed of—enough to buy a modest house or perhaps live comfortably!
My vision was obscured by tears. I turned to face David. “I was on his mind. He continued to protect me even after he was gone.”
David’s tone grew softer. “Mrs. Harris, you were quite dear to him. He wished to ensure that you would never again be reliant on anyone.”
“He knew what Laura might do?” I muttered.
“He hoped it wouldn’t happen, but he prepared for the worst,” David responded.
I inhaled deeply, the kind that fills your lungs after spending too much time underwater. “What do I do now?”
David gave a soft smile. “You allowed me to assist. We’ll locate a location for you. Somewhere private, secure, and peaceful. A place where you can rest at last.”
The world suddenly started to change back into colour!
David set everything up in a few weeks.
I relocated to a tiny cottage on the outskirts of town. It included a front porch, white shutters, and a tiny hydrangea garden. I cried the first night I slept there—not because I was depressed, but because I felt secure at last.
I resumed baking and began growing roses in the backyard. In the mornings, I sipped a warm cup of tea and read by the window. On my porch, I even discovered a cat who like taking naps. I gave him the name Benny.
David frequently dropped by, sometimes to talk and other times to bring groceries. We were intimate in a reassuringly quiet manner. The way he listened in particular made me think of Mark. It had been years since I had been genuinely heard.
Then someone knocked on my door on a gloomy, wet afternoon almost three years later.
My heart stopped when I opened it.
Laura was the one.
In some way, she appeared smaller and more worn out. Her eyes had lost their coldness. Water spilt onto the mat from her umbrella.
“Hi, Helen,” she murmured. “May I come in?”
Despite my hesitation, I moved aside. “Of course.”
She entered gently, looking around the main room. A picture of Mark holding the children with the ocean in the background caught her attention on the mantel.
“I didn’t know about the money,” she stated in a broken voice. “Not until a year following your departure. The documents were in a box in the attic. I promise, Helen, I was unaware that he had done it for you.”
I looked closely at her. “Even if you didn’t know, you still sent me away.”
With hazy eyes, she nodded. “I took my anger and brokenness out on you. I believed the ache would go away if you were gone. However, it didn’t. The children have grown up. They don’t often come. Last spring, I lost my job when the company failed. I believe that I deserved to lose everything.”
I glanced at my hands. Then I said, “Laura, I never hated you. I wasn’t shocked, but I was saddened. You were never present; you were constantly looking ahead.”
She suppressed a sob. “You were the centre of our house, according to Mark. I now understand it, even though I didn’t at the time. I apologise for all that I did.”
We were silent for a long time. The rain pounding softly on the roof was the only sound.
I stood up and made her a cup of tea. As two ladies tied by memories and suffering, we sat in silence.
Laura turned to me and said, “You deserved better,” as she got up to go. I appreciate you allowing me to say that.
After leading her to the door, I said, “Goodbye, Laura.”
She gave me one more glance and nodded. She then went outside into the downpour.
As she walked along the path, I saw that her umbrella was swaying a little in the wind.
Peace prevailed, but there was no satisfaction.
Because my son had ultimately given me what she was unable to:
A means of standing alone.
And he gave me this little house, made of love rather than bricks, where I would live out the rest of my days.
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