My son, Michael, surprised me with a cottage in the countryside, but when we got there, I realized it was all a trick. After a while, I discovered the real reason why he did this, and I still can’t forgive him. What would you do?
Hello! My name is Richard, and I’m 68 years old. I never thought I’d be asking strangers for advice, but here I am. I need some outside perspective on this.
For some background: I’ve been a single dad for most of my adult life. My wife, Emma, passed away from cancer when our son, Michael (currently 35 years old), was just ten years old.
It was a difficult time for both of us, but we managed to pull through together.
Since then, it’s been just the two of us against the world. I did my best to be both mother and father to him, working hard to give him every opportunity I could.
Growing up, Michael was a good kid. He had his moments of rebellion, sure, but overall, he was kind, hardworking, and seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.
He did well in school, went to college on a partial scholarship, and landed a good job in finance after graduation.
I’ve always been immensely proud of him, watching him grow into what I thought was a successful adult.
We remained close even after he moved out, talking on the phone regularly and having dinner together at least once a week.
That’s why what happened over a year ago came as such a shock.
It was a Tuesday evening when Michael came to my house, brimming with excitement. “Dad,” he said, “I’ve got amazing news! I bought you a cottage in the countryside!”
“A cottage? Michael, what are you talking about?“
“It’s perfect, Dad. It’s peaceful, serene, and just what you need. You’re going to love it!”
I was taken aback. Move to a cottage far from here? That seemed like too much. “Michael, you didn’t have to do that. I’m perfectly happy here.”
But he insisted! “No, Dad, you deserve it. The house you’re in now is TOO BIG FOR YOU ALONE. It’s time for a change. Trust me, this is going to be great for you.”
I have to admit, I was skeptical. The house I was living in had been our family home for over 30 years. It was where Michael grew up, where Emma and I had built our life together.
But my son seemed so excited, so sure that this was the right move. And I trusted him completely. After all, we’d always been honest with each other.
So, against my better judgment, I agreed to move and sell my house.
The next few days, I was packing and preparing to leave, while Michael handled most of the details. He assured me that everything was taken care of.
He was being so helpful that I pushed aside my lingering doubts.
Finally, the day came for us to drive to my new home. As we got in the car, Michael was chatting away about all the amenities this new place had.
But as we drove further and further from the city, I started feeling uneasy. The scenery became more and more desolate. It wasn’t woodsy or hillside.
Our familiar neighbor and the bustling streets of the city were gone and all that was left were empty, ugly fields, and even an abandoned farm.
The cottages nearby, which Michael knew I had admired and considered buying when his mother was alive, were cozy, homey places, surrounded by nature. This was the opposite.
“Michael,” I wondered, “are you sure we’re going the right way? This doesn’t look like cottage country to me.”
He assured me we were on the right track, but I noticed he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.
After about another hour of driving, we turned onto a long, winding driveway. At the end of it stood a large, boring building.
My heart sank as I read the sign: “Sunset Haven.”
This wasn’t a cottage. It was a nursing home.
I turned to Michael, trying to quell my emotions. “What is this? What’s going on?”
“Dad,” he said, but couldn’t even look me in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I said it was a cottage, but… this is better for you. You’ll be taken care of here.”
“Taken care of? I don’t need to be taken care of! I’m perfectly capable of living on my own. Why would you lie to me?“
“Dad, please.” Michael finally turned to me, and his eyes were pleading. “You’ve been forgetting things lately. I’m worried about you living alone. This place has great facilities, and there will always be someone around if you need help.”
“Forgetting things? Everyone forgets things sometimes!” I yelled, and angry tears fell from my eyes. “This isn’t right, Michael. Take me home right now.”
Michael shook his head and dropped the real bombshell of the day. “I can’t do that, Dad. I’ve… I’ve already sold the house.”
I felt like the ground had disappeared from under me. I knew I had agreed to sell, but I had all the time in the world. I wanted to meet the new owners, pick a nice family, and hell, tell them exactly how to care for the old Elm tree in the yard.
How could he have sold it without my knowledge or consent?
I demanded answers, but Michael was evasive. He mentioned something about having power of attorney and doing what was best for me.
I shut down after that, and the next few hours were a blur.
Somehow, I ended up checked into Sunset Haven and was led to a small room with a narrow bed and a window overlooking a parking lot.
The walls were a sickly shade of beige, and the air smelled of disinfectant and old people.
My old home retained the scent of my wife’s cinnamon coffee cake, and I never changed her decor choices. My only upgrades were new appliances when needed, and Michael had given me an Alexa.
But now, this sad, clinical place was my new home.
I couldn’t do anything about it, either. I thought about Michael’s words while I spent the next few days in shock and anger. Was I so far gone that I forgot everything?
Was this the right thing? Had I caused Michael harm? Had I been diagnosed with dementia or something?
I couldn’t imagine any of that, but Michael’s parting look of guilt and concern left me dubious.
The staff at Sunset Haven were kind enough, and they tried to engage me in activities to make me feel welcome. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
It was during an afternoon of more stewing in my feelings that I overheard a conversation that made everything even worse.
I was sitting in the common room, pretending to read a magazine, when I heard two nurses talking in hushed tones nearby.
“Poor Mr. Johnson,” one of them said. “Did you hear about his son?”
“No, what happened?”
“Apparently, he had some pretty big gambling debts. That’s why he sold his dad’s house and put him in here.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Gambling debts? Was that the real reason behind all of this? Had my son sold me out, quite literally, to cover his own mistakes?
I was even more devastated.
The son I’d raised, the boy I thought I knew better than anyone, had discarded me for selfish reasons.
I thought back to all the times I’d helped him out of tight spots, all the sacrifices I’d made to give him a good life.
Luckily, fate intervened in the form of an old friend. Jack, a lawyer I’d known for years, came to Sunset Haven to visit his sister and was shocked to find me there.
When I told him what happened, he was outraged. He offered to look into the legality of what Michael had done.
It turned out that the sale of my house had been rushed, with several legal corners cut in the process. With Jack’s help, I was able to contest the sale.
After a long battle that ended with Michael having to return the money he took from the buyers and pay all the legal fees, I finally got my home back and moved out of Sunset Haven.
Now, here’s where I need advice.
My son has been trying to apologize. He showed up at my house last week, and I hardly recognized him. He looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in weeks.
When I let him in, he broke down.
He told me how he’d started gambling to cope with stress at work, how things had spiraled out of control, and how he’d convinced himself that selling my house and putting me in a home was the best solution for everyone.
He swore he’d been getting help for his addiction and was committed to making things right.
“I was wrong, Dad,” he sobbed. “So wrong. Can you ever forgive me?“
Part of me wants to let bygones be bygones. He’s my son, and we only have each other in this world. But another part of me is still so angry and hurt.
How can I trust him again after what he did? He lied to me, manipulated me, and stole my home to cover up his own mistakes.
Even if he’s truly sorry now, how do I know he won’t do something like this again in the future?
What would you do in my place?
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
My Daughter and Son-in-Law Died 2 Years Ago – Then, One Day, My Grandkids Shouted, ‘Grandma, Look, That’s Our Mom and Dad!’
A woman sitting in her house | Source: Midjourney
That summer morning in my kitchen, staring at an anonymous letter, I felt something entirely different. I think it was hope mixed with a little bit of terror.
My hands trembled as I read those five words again, “They’re not really gone.”
The crisp white paper felt like it was burning my fingers. I thought I’d been managing my grief, trying to create a stable life for my grandkids, Andy and Peter, after losing my daughter, Monica, and her husband, Stephen. But this note made me realize how wrong I was.
Two brothers playing with toys | Source: Pexels
They got into an accident two years ago. I still remember how Andy and Peter kept asking me where their parents were and when they’d return.
It took me so many months to make them understand their mom and dad would never return. It broke my heart as I told them they’d have to manage things on their own now, and that I’d be there for them whenever they needed their parents.
After all the hard work I’d put in, I received this anonymous letter that claimed Monica and Stephan were still alive.
An envelope | Source: Pexels
“They’re… not really gone?” I whispered to myself, sinking into my kitchen chair. “What kind of sick game is this?”
I had crumpled the paper and was about to throw it away when my phone buzzed.
It was my credit card company, alerting me to a charge on Monica’s old card. The one I’d kept active just to hold onto a piece of her.
“How is that even possible?” I whispered. “I’ve had this card for two years. How can someone use it when it’s been sitting in the drawer?”
A woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney
I immediately called the bank’s customer support helpline.
“Hello, this is Billy speaking. How may I help you?” the customer service representative answered.
“Hi. I, uh, wanted to verify this recent transaction on my daughter’s card,” I said.
“Of course. May I have the first six and last four digits of the card number and your relationship to the account holder?” Billy asked.
I gave him the details, explaining, “I’m her mother. She… passed away two years ago, and I’ve been managing her remaining accounts.”
An older woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney
There was a pause on the line, and then Billy spoke carefully. “I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am. I don’t see a transaction on this card. The one you’re talking about has been made using a virtual card linked to the account.”
“A virtual card?” I asked, frowning. “But I never linked one to this account. How can a virtual card be active when I have the physical card here?”
“Virtual cards are separate from the physical card, so they can continue to function independently unless deactivated. Would you like me to cancel the virtual card for you?” Billy asked gently.
A customer care representative | Source: Pexels
“No, no,” I managed to speak. I didn’t want to cancel the card thinking Monica must’ve activated it when she was alive. “Please leave it active. Could you tell me when the virtual card was created?”
There was a pause as he checked. “It was activated a week before the date you mentioned your daughter passed.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. “Thank you, Billy. That’ll be all for now.”
Then, I called my closest friend Ella. I told her about the strange letter and the transaction on Monica’s card.
An older woman using her phone | Source: Pexels
“That’s impossible,” Ella gasped. “Could it be a mistake?”
“It’s like someone wants me to believe Monica and Stephan are out there somewhere, just hiding. But why would they… why would anyone do that?”
The charge wasn’t large. It was just $23.50 at a local coffee shop. Part of me wanted to visit the shop and find out more about the transaction, but part of me was afraid I’d find out something I wasn’t supposed to know.
A woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
I thought I’d look into this matter on the weekend, but what happened on Saturday turned my world upside down.
Andy and Peter wanted to go to the beach on Saturday, so I took them there. Ella had agreed to meet us there to help me look after the kids.
The ocean breeze carried the salt spray as the children splashed in the shallow waves, their laughter echoing across the sand. It was the first time in ages I’d heard them so carefree.
A kid standing near a sand castle | Source: Pexels
Ella lounged on her beach towel beside me, both of us watching the kids play.
I was showing her the anonymous letter when I heard Andy shout.
“Grandma, look!” he grabbed Peter’s hand, pointing toward the beachfront café. “That’s our mom and dad!”
My heart stopped. There, barely thirty feet away, sat a woman with Monica’s dyed hair and graceful posture, leaning toward a man who could easily ihave been Stephan’s twin.
They were sharing a plate of fresh fruit.
A plate of sliced fruits | Source: Pexels
“Please, watch them for a bit,” I said to Ella, urgency making my voice crack. She agreed without question, though concern filled her eyes.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I told the boys. “You can sunbathe here. Stay close to Ella, okay?”
The kids nodded and I turned toward the couple in the café.
My heart skipped a beat as they stood and walked down a narrow path lined with sea oats and wild roses. My feet moved of their own accord, following at a distance.
An older woman’s shoes | Source: Midjourney
They walked close together, whispering, and occasionally laughing. The woman tucked her hair behind her ear exactly like Monica always had. The man had Stephan’s slight limp from his college football injury.
Then I heard them talk.
“It’s risky, but we had no choice, Emily,” the man said.
Emily? I thought. Why is he calling her Emily?
They turned down a shell-lined path toward a cottage covered in flowering grapevines.
“I know,” the woman sighed. “But I miss them… especially the boys.”
A woman standing outdoors | Source: Pexels
I gripped the wooden fence surrounding the cottage, my knuckles white.
It is you, I thought. But why… why would you do this?
Once they went inside the cottage, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. The dispatcher listened patiently as I explained the impossible situation.
I stayed by the fence and listened for more proof. I couldn’t believe what was happening.
Finally, gathering every ounce of courage I possessed, I approached the cottage door and rang the doorbell.
For a moment, there was silence, then footsteps approached.
A doorknob | Source: Pexels
The door swung open, and there stood my daughter. Her face drained of color as she recognized me.
“Mom?” she gasped. “What… how did you find us?”
Before I could respond, Stephan appeared behind her. Then, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air.
“How could you?” My voice trembled with rage and grief. “How could you leave your own children behind? Do you have any idea what you put us through?”
The police cars pulled up, and two officers approached quickly but cautiously.
A police car | Source: Pexels
“I think we’ll need to ask some questions,” one said, looking between us. “This… this is not something we see every day.”
Monica and Stephan, who had changed their names to Emily and Anthony, spilled out their story in bits and pieces.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Monica said, her voice wavering. “We were… we were drowning, you know? The debts, the loan sharks… they kept coming, demanding more. We tried everything, but it just got worse.”
A woman talking to her mother | Source: Midjourney
Stephan sighed. “They didn’t just want money. They were threatening us, and we didn’t want to drag the kids into the mess we created.”
Monica continued, tears trickling down her cheeks. “We thought if we left, we’d be giving the kids a better, more stable life. We thought they’d be better off without us. Leaving them behind was the hardest thing we ever did.”
They confessed that they had staged the accident to look like they’d fallen off a cliff into the river, hoping the police would soon stop searching and they’d be presumed dead.
A man standing in a house | Source: Midjourney
They explained how they moved to another town to start fresh and had even changed their names.
“But I couldn’t stop thinking about my babies,” Monica admitted. “I needed to see them, so we rented this cottage for a week, just to be close to them.”
My heart broke as I listened to their story, but anger simmered beneath my sympathy. I couldn’t help but believe there had to be a better way to deal with the loan sharks.
An older woman | Source: Midjourney
Once they confessed everything, I texted Ella our location, and soon her car pulled up with Andy and Peter. The children burst out, and their faces lit up with joy as they recognized their parents.
“Mom! Dad!” they shouted, running toward their parents. “You’re here! We knew you’d come back!”
Monica looked at them and tears welled up in her eyes. She was meeting her kids after two years.
A worried woman | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, my sweet boys… I missed you so much. I’m so sorry,” she said, hugging them.
I watched the scene unfold, whispering to myself, “But at what cost, Monica? What have you done?”
The police allowed the brief reunion before pulling Monica and Stephen aside. The senior officer turned to me with sympathy in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but they could face some serious charges here. They’ve broken a lot of laws.”
“And my grandchildren?” I asked, watching Andy and Peter’s confused faces as their parents were separated from them again. “How do I explain any of this to them? They’re just kids.”
A worried older woman | Source: Midjourney
“That’s something you’ll have to decide,” he said gently. “But the truth is bound to come out eventually.”
Later that night, after tucking the children into bed, I sat alone in my living room. The anonymous letter lay on the coffee table before me, its message now holding a different kind of weight.
I picked it up, reading those five words one more time, “They’re not really gone.”
I still didn’t know who had sent it, but they were right.
A woman reading a letter | Source: Midjourney
Monica and Stephan weren’t gone. They’d chosen to leave. And somehow, that felt worse than knowing they weren’t alive.
“I don’t know if I can protect the kids from the sadness,” I whispered to the quiet room, “but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”
Now, I sometimes feel I shouldn’t have called the cops. Part of me thinks I could’ve let my daughter live the life she wanted, but part of me wanted her to realize what she did was wrong.
Do you think I did the right thing by calling the cops? What would you have done if you were in my place?
A woman looking straight ahead | Source: Midjourney
If you enjoyed reading this story, here’s another one you might like: While Claire is dropping her kids off at summer camp, she gets a devastating phone call. Her 67-year-old mother, an Alzheimer’s patient, is missing. After three days of looking for Edith, police officers bring her home, and only then does the old woman reveal a horrible truth about Claire’s husband.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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