I stood in the kitchen, the chef’s knife falling onto the cutting board in a steady rhythm, slicing the crisp green cucumber into uniform, thin pieces. The evening sun streamed through the window, casting a warm golden glow across the countertop. Thump, thump, thump—the knife met the board, especially clear in the quiet kitchen.

Three years ago, after Arthur passed away, I moved in with my son, Julian. Leo had just been born and Clara’s maternity leave was ending. She had to go back to work, and they really needed someone to help around the house.

I still remember what Julian said when he came to pick me up: “Mom, we don’t feel right with you living all alone. Come live with us. You can help look after Leo, too.”

That phrase—help look after Leo, too—sounded a bit sharp at the time, but I didn’t let it bother me. My grandson needed me. That was enough.

I slid the cucumbers onto a plate and took two tomatoes out of the refrigerator. Julian always loved the meatloaf I used to make. As a child, he could eat two huge helpings in a single sitting. Thinking of my son, the corners of my mouth turned up. Even though he’s now a successful department manager, in my eyes he’ll always be that chubby little boy with dimples when he smiled.

“Grandma! Grandma!”

A tender, childish voice called from the living room, tiny feet pattering toward the kitchen. My little Leo ran in and threw his arms around my leg.

“Whoa there, my little treasure. Slow down,” I said, quickly putting down the knife, wiping my hands, and bending to pick him up.

Three‑year‑old Leo felt heavy in my arms. His round eyes were just like his father’s when he was a boy.

“Grandma, look.” He held up a colorful drawing—crooked lines and shapes everywhere.

“What is this? Let Grandma guess,” I said, pretending to think. “Is it a car?”

“No!” Leo giggled. “It’s a big dinosaur.”

“Wow, a big dinosaur—you drew it so well,” I said, kissing his little cheek. “How about we show it to Daddy when he gets home?”

“When is Daddy coming home?” he asked.

I looked at the clock on the wall—already 6:20. “Soon, soon. Daddy’s on his way home from work.”

Just as I said that, we heard the front door unlock. Leo slipped out of my arms and shot toward the entryway like a little cannonball.

“Daddy!”

I followed and saw Julian bend to pick him up, his face tired but wearing a happy smile. My son was dressed in a sharp suit, tie slightly loosened, fine lines beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. Time really flies.

“Mom,” Julian nodded at me, hoisting Leo onto his shoulders. “There was some great news at the office today.”

“What good news?” I asked, taking his briefcase. I could smell a faint scent of sweat—he got that from his father, who always perspired easily.

Julian’s eyes lit up; his voice jumped an octave. “I got promoted to department manager.”

“Really?” I clapped my hands. “That’s wonderful. I knew my son was capable. Hold on—Mom will add a couple more dishes. We have to celebrate properly.”

I turned to go back to the kitchen, but Julian stopped me.

“No need, Mom. I’ve already booked a private room at the Oak Room. I’m treating my department colleagues to dinner. Clara’s coming straight from the mall over there. I just came back to change and then I’m leaving.”

My hand froze mid‑air. I slowly turned around. “Oh, that’s very nice. You young people go celebrate. I’ll stay home and watch Leo.”

Julian didn’t seem to notice my disappointment. Loosening his tie, he said, “We’re taking Leo, too. My in‑laws are already waiting there.”

My heart sank. “Your in‑laws?” I blurted, then realized he meant Clara’s parents.

“Yeah,” Julian said, draping his suit jacket over the sofa. “The whole family should be there for such a happy occasion. Mom, don’t trouble yourself. There are leftovers in the fridge. You can just heat them up and eat.”

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Okay. You all go have a good time.”

Julian showered, changed, and left with Leo in his arms. After the door closed, the only sound left in the kitchen was the gurgling soup simmering on the stove. I walked back in, turned off the heat, and looked at the ingredients I had prepared. Suddenly, I had no appetite to cook.

The Oak Room was a high‑end restaurant Clara’s parents visited often. Arthur and I had only been to places like that a few times in our entire lives. “Forget it,” I muttered. “I’m too old to get used to that fancy food anyway.”

I wrapped the cucumber and tomatoes and put them back in the refrigerator. In the freezer, there was still half a dish of leftover meatloaf from yesterday and a bowl of rice. Enough dinner for one person.

Just as the microwave beeped, my phone vibrated. A text from Clara: Mom, remember to eat the leftovers in the fridge. Don’t let them go to waste.

I was about to reply when another message came in—a photo of a luxurious private room. Julian stood in the middle holding a glass of wine. Clara and her parents sat on either side. Leo was on his maternal grandfather’s lap. Everyone was beaming. In the corner, I could even see Julian’s sister and brother‑in‑law.

So—the entire family was there. I was the only one missing.

My finger hovered over the screen before I finally replied with a single word: Okay.

I placed my phone face‑down on the dining table, the plastic case making a crisp click against the glass. The meatloaf in the microwave gave off a rich, savory aroma, but my appetite was gone.

The clock pointed to 7:30. It was fully dark outside. I carried my food to the coffee table and turned on the television. The local evening news was on—the anchorwoman’s bright red lips opening and closing—but I didn’t hear a single word. My fingers unlocked the phone and opened photos from three years ago.

It was the first New Year after Arthur passed away. Our whole family took a group photo at the portrait studio near our building. Julian in the middle, me on his left, Clara on his right. Leo was surrounded by us, sitting on a small stool in the front row. Back then, I was still in the family portrait.

A burst of laughter from the television pulled me back. A family sitcom was playing—actors gathered around a dining table, talking and laughing. I turned off the TV. The room fell silent, save for the refrigerator’s occasional hum.

I walked toward Julian’s bedroom—or their master bedroom now. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open gently.

A huge wedding photo hung above the bed. Clara in a pure‑white gown. Julian in a black suit. They were smiling radiantly. I remembered that gown—custom‑made—nearly $3,000, half of Arthur’s and my annual pension.

The vanity was covered with bottles and jars. I recognized a few expensive skin‑care products Julian had given Clara for her last birthday. Beside them, an exquisite jewelry box filled with gold pieces—most from gifts Arthur and I had given over the years. In the most prominent spot: a diamond necklace Julian bought for their fifth anniversary.

I gently closed the door and turned to Leo’s room. The children’s room was a riot of color—cartoon stickers on the walls, toys piled in the corner. I picked up the teddy bear from his bedside, the one I’d sewn when Leo was born. It was worn now, but he still hugged it to sleep.

“At least Leo still needs me,” I murmured, putting the bear back.

Back in the living room, my gaze fell on the family photo albums on the bookshelf. I took down the most recent one, a thin layer of dust on the cover.

The first page: a black‑and‑white photo of Julian at one month, a tiny bundle in a swaddle. My own young face beamed with new‑mother joy. Flip—Julian’s first day of kindergarten, clinging to my shirt, refusing to let go. Elementary graduation, a big red corsage, reciting a poem on stage. Middle school, first prize in a math competition, smiling shyly on the podium. The day his college acceptance letter arrived—we set off firecrackers in the yard.

Every photo documented the little and big things I’d done for my son. To get him into a good school district, Arthur and I scrimped and saved to buy that house. To pay for his tutoring, I didn’t buy new clothes for three years. The year he took the SATs, I woke at 4 a.m. to make him soup to keep his strength up.

My phone rang—Carol, an old neighbor, one of the few friends I still kept in touch with.

“Hello, Eleanor. Have you eaten?” Carol’s loud voice filled the receiver.

“Yes, yes. I’ve eaten. How about you?” I tried to sound normal.

“I just finished. I was bored, so I thought I’d call,” she said, then paused. “Oh—by the way, I heard your Julian got a promotion. Clara ran into me in the neighborhood. She was so happy—said they’ll finally be able to get a bigger house now.”

My fingers tightened on the edge of the album. “A bigger house?”

“Yeah. They’ve got their eye on that new development on the east side—Willow Creek Estates,” Carol said, full of envy. “Your Julian is so successful.”

A sharp pain shot through my stomach. Julian had never mentioned moving.

“Eleanor, are you there?”

“Ah—yes. I’m listening,” I managed.

“It’s not set in stone yet. You know how Clara talks ahead of things.”

“True,” Carol said, changing the subject. “By the way, when are you coming back to the old house for a visit? The community is registering for demolition notices, and it looks like your building is within the scope.”

“Demolition?” I was stunned. “Since when?”

“Just in the last couple of weeks. Notices are posted. The compensation plan looks pretty good, too,” Carol said, puzzled now. “What—Julian didn’t tell you?”

I took a deep breath. “He might have. My memory isn’t so good lately.”

After a few more pleasantries, I hung up, hands trembling. Demolition. A new house. These were huge—and I, his mother, was hearing about them from someone else.

I walked onto the balcony. The early‑summer breeze was slightly cool. In the distance, the city’s neon lights flickered; the silhouettes of skyscrapers were faint in the darkness. Julian and the others were probably at the Oak Room—glasses clinking—celebrating. Clara’s parents bragging about their businessman son‑in‑law. Julian’s sister introducing Clara to her circle of wealthy friends.

And me? Fit to eat leftovers at home. Not even told that my own home might be demolished.

Back inside, I opened the album again—Julian’s college graduation. In the photo, he wore a cap and gown, his arms around Arthur’s and my shoulders. We were smiling brightly under the sun. Back then, I was still important in his life.

My finger traced Julian’s young face. A tear fell onto the album. I wiped it away, but more followed.

“Oh, Arthur,” I whispered to my husband’s gentle, smiling face in the photo. “Our son is all grown up. He doesn’t need me anymore.”

I closed the album and went to wash my face. The woman in the mirror had red, swollen eyes; the wrinkles seemed deeper than last year. Sixty‑eight years old—an age when others are enjoying their grandchildren—and I was feeling more and more out of place.

In my bedroom closet, my eyes fell on a small suitcase in the corner—the one Arthur used during his last hospital stay. When he was discharged, it was empty. I pulled it out and dusted it off. The wheels were a bit stuck, but it still worked. I opened it; a faint smell of disinfectant lingered inside.

“Just for a few days,” I told myself, and began packing a few changes of clothes and toiletries. “I’ll go stay with Helen—clear my head.”

Helen, a former colleague, lived alone on the north side of the city. She always told me to come stay when I had time.

After packing, I sat on the edge of the bed and wrote a note: I’m going to stay at Helen’s for a few days. Don’t worry about me. I thought for a moment and added: There’s some mac and cheese in the fridge—Leo likes it.

I stuck the note on the refrigerator and took one last look around the home I’d lived in for three years—the living room I cleaned every day, the kitchen where I carefully prepared every meal, the small table where Leo scribbled his drawings. I had given so much, yet felt invisible.

The moment I closed the door, I heard something inside me break.

As the elevator descended, I gripped the suitcase handle tightly, as if it were the only thing I could hold on to.

At the building’s entrance, the security guard, Mike, eyed my suitcase. “Mrs. Eleanor, heading out so late?”

“Yes—going to stay with an old friend for a few days,” I managed a smile.

“Take care now. Be safe,” Mike said, waving warmly.

I nodded and dragged my suitcase toward the bus stop. The last bus had left; I hailed a taxi.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I gave him Helen’s address and leaned back, closing my eyes. The car drove into the night, the distance from home growing farther with every turn.

My phone vibrated—Clara: Mom, where did you put Leo’s formula? We’re almost home.

I looked at the screen and didn’t reply. Let Julian find it himself. He should remember how I took care of him when he was a child.

At a red light, I watched a family of three cross the street—the parents holding their little girl’s hands, all three laughing at something. My vision blurred again. Once upon a time, Arthur and I held Julian’s hand just like that, thinking happiness would last forever.

“Here we are,” the driver said, pulling me back.

After paying the fare, I stood downstairs from Helen’s apartment, suddenly hesitant. Was it appropriate to disturb her so late? Would she think I was strange? While I hesitated, my phone rang—Julian.

“Mom, where did you go? Leo’s been crying for his grandma.”

I took a deep breath and texted back: I’m at Helen’s for a few days. You two take good care of Leo. Then I turned off my phone. Tonight, just this once, I would be selfish.

Dragging my suitcase upstairs, I rang Helen’s doorbell. In the few seconds I waited, I realized this was the first decision I’d made for myself in three years.

Helen opened the door, eyes wide. “Eleanor—my goodness, what is all this?”

“Can I stay a few days?” My voice was hoarser than I expected.

Helen pulled me inside and took my suitcase. “What happened? Is it Julian and his family?”

“It’s nothing. I just wanted some fresh air,” I forced a smile, but the muscles in my face felt stiff.

Helen’s apartment was small—a tidy one‑bedroom. A photo of her and her late husband hung on the wall. A few green plants sat by the TV. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood. An open book and a pair of reading glasses lay on the coffee table.

“Have you eaten? I can heat some soup,” Helen asked.

“No, thank you. I’ve eaten.”

Setting down my bag, exhaustion washed over me—my legs like lead. Sensing it, Helen didn’t press further.

“Take a hot shower first. I’ll make up the bed—the sofa pulls out, it’s comfortable.”

As the hot water washed over me, I realized I’d been trembling all day. Steam fogged the mirror, blurring my reflection and my thoughts.

Wearing the clean pajamas Helen had prepared, I found she’d already made the sofa bed. A glass of warm milk sat on the table.

“Drink some—it’ll help you sleep,” Helen said, patting my shoulder. “Whatever it is, we can talk tomorrow. Tonight, just rest.”

I nodded gratefully, drank the milk, and snuggled into the soft blankets. Helen turned off the lights, leaving a small nightlight on.

My body was exhausted, but my mind raced. Had Julian and his family gotten home? What would they think when they saw my note? Was Leo crying? Did they find the mac and cheese in the fridge?

My phone was still off. I didn’t dare turn it on.

After Arthur passed, Julian became my entire emotional support. Now—even he…

Tears welled again. I wiped them quietly; I didn’t want Helen to hear. The pillow smelled of sunshine—she must have aired it out. The small, considerate gesture sharpened the feeling of being neglected at home.

I don’t know when I finally fell asleep, but I dreamed of Arthur standing in the distance, waving. I wanted to run to him, but a small hand held me back. It was Leo. He was crying, “Grandma, don’t go.”

Morning sun pushed through the curtains. Disoriented, I blinked, then recognized Helen’s living room and remembered the night before. She was already up; the smell of frying eggs drifted from the kitchen. An extra blanket covered me—she must have added it during the night.

“You’re awake,” Helen said, carrying breakfast—fried eggs, oatmeal, her homemade pickles. “Just something simple.”

I thanked her and sat at the small table. The breakfast reminded me of the days before retirement, when we ate together in the company cafeteria. Life was busy then, but at least it was mine.

“Now—can you tell me what happened?” Helen asked softly.

I stirred my oatmeal and told her everything. Julian’s promotion celebration I wasn’t invited to. Clara’s text telling me to eat leftovers. Hearing about the demolition and moving plans from Carol.

Helen’s brow furrowed deeper with each detail. “That’s too much. Not telling you about something as big as demolition?”

“What I want most is the truth about the old house,” I said, setting down my chopsticks. “Julian probably thought I didn’t care, so he didn’t mention it.”

“That’s easy enough to find out,” Helen said, standing decisively. “I’ll go with you. The notice must be posted on the community board.”

After breakfast, we took a bus to my old neighborhood. The scenery outside the window grew more familiar—the grocery store Arthur and I frequented, the kindergarten Julian attended, the park where we walked on weekends. I hadn’t been back in three years. Not much had changed—just a bit older.

Walking through the gate, my heart beat faster. There—the sycamore tree Julian crashed into while learning to ride a bike. And the stone bench where Arthur loved to cool off in summer.

A few old neighbors were gathered at the bulletin board. When they saw me, they greeted me with surprise.

“Eleanor! Long time no see.”

After some small talk, I looked at the board. A conspicuous notice of intent for demolition was posted in the center. Our building was within scope; homeowners were required to register with the community office within two weeks.

“Your Julian came by last week,” said Mr. Robert, who lived across the hall. “Brought a stack of documents and talked to the office folks for a long time.”

A tightness grew in my chest. “What did he say?”

“Not sure of the details. Seemed like he was asking about the compensation.” Mr. Robert shook his head. “Your place is large—the compensation should be quite a lot.”

Helen gently squeezed my hand. “Want to go ask at the office?”

The community office was in the center of the complex. The staff member, Sarah, was an enthusiastic young woman who had often helped Arthur with pension matters.

“Mrs. Eleanor!” she stood up. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”

I smiled and got straight to the point. “Sarah, I’d like to ask about the demolition of our building.”

She flipped through a registration book. “Building 3, Unit 2502. Homeowner: Arthur Chen. Your son was here last week—he submitted copies of the deed and IDs. The preliminary compensation estimate is around $300,000.”

$300,000. My vision went dark for a moment.

After Arthur passed, the house was naturally inherited by Julian and me. Although I had been living there, his name was indeed on the deed.

“So—what’s the status now?” I tried to remain calm.

“It’s in the assessment stage,” Sarah explained. “Once the results are out and the agreement signed, compensation can be disbursed within three months.” She hesitated. “Your son said you weren’t in good health and that he was fully authorized to handle everything. Is there a problem?”

A huge problem. I fought back my anger. “No. I just came to find out.”

Walking out, my legs felt weak; I had to lean against the wall. “Eleanor, are you okay?” Helen asked.

“They’re handling demolition behind my back,” I said, voice trembling. “$300,000—what does Julian plan to do with it? Buy a townhouse for Clara?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Helen advised. “Maybe he wanted to give you a surprise.”

“What kind of surprise needs to be kept from me?” I laughed bitterly.

We stood before the old house I’d lived in for over twenty years. I took out my key—never removed from my ring—and opened the door. A musty smell. The furniture was covered in white cloths; dust lay on the floor. Sunlight streamed through gaps in the curtains, illuminating floating particles. My footsteps left clear prints on the wood.

Everything was familiar—the rocking chair Arthur loved, the porcelain vase I used for flower arrangements, the basketball scuff Julian left on the wall in middle school. Our wedding photo still hung above the bed in the master. A young Arthur, handsome and tall, with me leaning shyly on his shoulder. The photo had yellowed, but the happiness felt like yesterday.

In the study, Julian’s childhood awards and trophies were neatly arranged on the bookshelf. Arthur always said he wanted to keep them for his grandson—to let him know how outstanding his father was. Julian’s college class schedule was still stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet from my Washington trip. A crack on the windowsill by the sink from a cup Julian had thrown in a teenage fit.

Every corner held a memory—and now all of it was about to be leveled by bulldozers. What hurt more was that my own son planned to handle it behind my back.

“Eleanor, look at this,” Helen said, holding a stack of documents she’d found in a drawer. I took them—an assessment report and compensation plan. Julian’s signature was on it. There was also a power‑of‑attorney form with a signature that sloppily imitated mine. I knew my own handwriting. This was not it.

“He forged my signature,” I whispered.

Helen gasped. “This is illegal.”

I flipped mechanically—then found a note tucked into the last page. Julian’s handwriting to Clara: Honey, once the demolition money comes through, don’t tell Mom at first. We’ll bring her to live with us after we buy the townhouse so she doesn’t worry about the money. I’ve already designed the basement as her room. It’s close to the kitchen—convenient for her to cook.

The basement. My room was in the basement.

The world spun. I collapsed into Arthur’s rocking chair; it let out a familiar creak. Once upon a time, Arthur sat here holding a young Julian and telling him stories. Later, Julian sat here studying for exams. And later…

“Eleanor, what are you going to do?” Helen asked.

I took a deep breath and decided. “I’m going to stay here a few days.”

“Here?” Helen looked around. The utilities still worked.

“I need time to think—and I need evidence.”

Helen tried to dissuade me, but gave up after seeing my face. “Then at least let me help you clean.”

We worked quickly, dusting the living room and bedroom. Helen ran to the corner store for necessities and food. Meanwhile, I plugged in my phone and turned it on. Dozens of unread messages and missed calls—mostly from Julian, a few from Clara. The most recent was from Julian: Mom, where are you? Leo cried all night. We’re worried.

I hesitated, then replied: I’m at the old house. I want to be alone a few days. Don’t worry.

The phone rang immediately—Julian.

“Mom, why did you go to the old house? No one’s lived there for so long—it’s not safe. I’m coming now.”

“No need,” I said calmly. “I want to stay here and remember my time with your father.”

“But Leo keeps crying for his grandma,” Julian said, playing his trump card.

My heart softened for a second. Then I remembered the documents and the note, and it hardened again.

“You two are his parents,” I said. “It’s time you learn to care for your child on your own. I’ll be back on the weekend.”

I hung up and looked at Helen. “Can you do me a favor? I want to consult a lawyer.”

Helen nodded. “My nephew’s a real‑estate attorney. I’ll call him now.”

That afternoon, Helen’s nephew, David, came to the old house. Early thirties, gold‑rimmed glasses, clear and methodical. After listening and reviewing the documents, he pushed up his frames.

“Mrs. Chen, forging a signature is illegal. This power of attorney is invalid. Secondly, the house was joint property of you and your husband. After his passing, both you and your son are legal heirs. Any disposal requires consent of both parties.”

“So—what should I do?”

“First, go to the community office and revoke the power of attorney; state you don’t agree with the current arrangement. Second, talk seriously with your son to understand his intentions.”

After seeing David out, I sat on the newly made bed and watched the sunset. The old house was quiet. Every evening, sunlight would stream in like this. Arthur called it the golden hour.

My phone rang again—Clara.

“Mom, please don’t be angry. We didn’t mean to exclude you from dinner. We just thought you wouldn’t like that kind of occasion. Leo really misses you.”

I didn’t reply. It wasn’t that I disliked the occasion—it was that I disliked being excluded. It wasn’t anger; it was heartbreak.

As night fell, the familiar sounds of the old house returned—the gurgle of pipes, the soft whistle of wind through windows, the faint sound of the downstairs TV. These sounds, once background to my days, now felt dear.

I decided to stay a few days and think carefully about the road ahead. Sixty‑eight might not be too old. It might still be possible to start over.