When my 32-year-old son asked to host his birthday at my house, I didn’t hesitate.
He said it’d be low-key.
I wanted to believe it was a chance to reconnect.
I was wrong.
The next morning, I returned home to find my front door hanging off its hinges.
A smashed window. Burn marks on the siding.
Inside, the house looked like it had been ransacked—beer cans, shattered glass, cushions ripped open.
And a note on the counter:
“We went all out for a final goodbye to our youth. You might need to clean up a bit.”
That line broke me.
I called my son over and over. Nothing.
By the tenth call, I left a voicemail in tears.
“You can’t ignore me. I raised you in that house. If you don’t make this right—I swear I’ll sue you.”
I collapsed.
Later, my 80-year-old neighbor Martha came by. She saw the mess, saw me, and gently said,
“Come over later. We need to talk.”
I didn’t know what she meant—but I went.
When I arrived, Stuart was already there, looking smug.
Then Martha calmly dropped a bomb.
“I’m selling my house,” she said. “Originally, I was going to give it to you, Stuart.”
His face lit up. But she wasn’t done.
“But after what you did to your mother’s home, I changed my mind. I’m giving it to Nadine instead.”
His jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious!”
“I am. And I’m glad I never had children.”
He stormed out, slamming the door.
The room went quiet. This time, it was a good kind of quiet.
I looked at her, speechless.
“You’ve always been the kindest friend I’ve had,” she said. “You deserve this.”
Tears welled up. Because while I had just gained something incredible…
…I had also lost something I wasn’t sure I could ever get back.
My son.
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