I sat by the window, watching the roses in the garden sway in the breeze. The garden reminded me of home, of the house I left behind.
I didn’t go outside much anymore—too hot or too cold. The nursing home was quiet, the nurses always polite, and the other residents distant. My children had moved away, and I hadn’t heard from them in years.
One day, a nurse told me I had a visitor. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him—David, my son, after 30 years.
“I wanted to see you, Mom,” he said. “I’m sorry I left.”
His words caught me off guard. “Why now?” I asked.
“My life fell apart,” he said. “And it made me think of you.”
He apologized for not coming sooner, and I didn’t know how to respond.
After that, he began visiting often, bringing flowers and books, and we started talking again. One day, he took me to the park, where I asked to see the old house again. But he refused, saying it wasn’t the same.
Curious, I went to see it myself, key in hand. But when I arrived, the house was gone. In its place stood a grand mansion. I panicked and called the police, only to find out that David had rebuilt the house as a surprise for me.
“I wanted to give you your home back,” he said, apologizing for everything.
I looked at the house, now restored with all my favorite flowers, and for the first time in years, I felt at peace.
“Come back, Mom,” David said. “You don’t have to stay in that nursing home anymore.”
I looked at him, my home, and the garden, and smiled. “Yes, I am.”
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