My son Michael surprised me with a little house in the countryside, but when we arrived there, I realized it was all a trick.
After a while, I discovered the real reason he did it, and I still can’t forgive him. What would you do?
Hello! My name is Richard, and I am 68 years old. I never thought I would ask strangers for advice, but here I am. I need an outside perspective.
For some background: I was a single parent for most of my adult life.
My wife Emma died of cancer when our son Michael (now 35 years old) was just ten years old. It was a tough time for both of us, but we got through it together.
Since then, it’s been just the two of us against the world. I did my best to be both mother and father for him, working hard to give him every opportunity I could.
Growing up, Michael was a good boy. 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 was always very proud of him and watched him grow into what I thought was a successful adult.
Even after he moved out, we stayed close, talking regularly and having dinner together at least once a week.
So what happened over a year ago was such a shock. It was a Tuesday evening when Michael came to my home, full of excitement. “Dad,” he said, “I have great news! I bought you a little house in the country!”
“A house? Michael, what are you talking about?”
“It’s perfect, Dad. It’s peaceful, quiet, and exactly what you need. You’ll love it!”
I was stunned. Moving to a cottage far away? That seemed like too much. “Michael, you didn’t have to do this. 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 will be great for you.”
I have to admit, I was skeptical. The house I lived in had been our family home for over 30 years. Michael grew up there. Emma and I built our life together there.
But my son seemed so excited, so sure that this was the right step. And I trusted him completely. After all, we had always been honest with each other.
So I agreed, against my better judgment, to move and sell my house.
In the following days, I packed and prepared for the move while Michael took care of most of the details. He assured me that everything was taken care of. He was so helpful that I pushed my lingering doubts aside.
Finally, the day came for us to drive to my new home. As we got into the car, Michael chatted about all the amenities this new place had.
But as we drove further away from the city, I began to feel uneasy. The scenery became increasingly dreary. It wasn’t wooded or hilly. Our familiar neighborhood and the bustling city streets were gone, and all that remained were empty, ugly fields and even an abandoned farmhouse.
The cottages nearby that Michael knew I had admired and considered buying when his mother was still alive were cozy, homey places surrounded by nature.
This was the opposite. “Michael,” I asked, “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 path, 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 stood a large, dreary 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 and tried to suppress my feelings. “What is this? What’s going on?”
“Dad,” he said, unable to even look me in the eye, “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, his eyes 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 shouted, tears of anger streaming from my eyes. “This isn’t right, Michael. Take me home immediately.”
Michael shook his head and dropped the real bombshell of the day. “I can’t do that, Dad. I… I’ve already sold the house.” I felt as if the ground had disappeared beneath me.
I knew I had agreed to the sale, but I thought I had all the time in the world. I wanted to meet the new owners, choose a nice family, and tell them exactly how to care for the old elm in the yard.
How could he have sold it without my knowledge or consent?
I demanded answers, but Michael deflected. He mentioned something about having a power of attorney and doing what’s best for me. After that, I shut down, and the next few hours were a blur.
Somehow, I checked into Sunset Haven and was shown to a small room with a narrow bed and a window overlooking a parking lot.
The walls were painted a sickly beige, and the air smelled of disinfectant and old people.
My old home still held the scent of my wife’s cinnamon coffee cake, and I never changed her décor 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. 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 harmed Michael? Was I diagnosed with dementia or something?
I couldn’t imagine any of that, but Michael’s parting look of guilt and worry made me doubt.
The staff at Sunset Haven were kind and tried to involve me in activities to make me feel welcome. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
But even if I really had forgotten everything, why did Michael bring me here? I was a devoted father. I always attended his school events. I was front and center for everything.
This felt like the greatest betrayal I’ve ever experienced. I know children don’t owe us anything, but… I thought I had raised him better.
One afternoon, as I brooded over my feelings, I overheard a conversation that made everything even worse.
I was sitting in the common room pretending to read a magazine when I overheard two nurses nearby speaking in hushed tones. “Poor Mr. Johnson,” one of them said. “Have you heard about his son?”
“No, what happened?”
Here’s the translation of your text:
“Apparently, he had quite a lot of gambling debts. That’s why he sold my father’s house and put him here.”
I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. Gambling debts? Was that the real reason for all of this? Had my son, in the literal sense, betrayed me to cover up his own mistakes?
I was still devastated.
The son I had raised, the boy I thought I knew better than anyone else, had discarded me for selfish reasons.
I thought back to all the times I had helped him out of tough situations, to all the sacrifices I had made to give him a good life.
Fortunately, fate intervened in the form of an old friend. Jack, a lawyer I had known for years, came to Sunset Haven to visit his sister and was shocked to find me there.
When I told him what had happened, he was outraged. He offered to examine the legality of what Michael had done.
It turned out that the sale of my house had been rushed, with several legal shortcuts taken. With Jack’s help, I was able to challenge the sale.
After a long battle, which ended with Michael having to return the money he had taken from the buyers and pay all legal fees, I finally got my home back and moved out of Sunset Haven.
Now, here’s where I need advice. My son tried to apologize. He showed up at my house last week, and I barely recognized him. He looked terrible, as if he hadn’t slept or eaten properly for weeks.
When I let him in, he broke down. He told me how he had started gambling to cope with stress at work, how things had gotten out of control, and how he had convinced himself that selling my house and putting me in a care home was the best solution for everyone.
He swore that he had gotten 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 the past be the past.
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’s done? He lied to me, manipulated me, and stole my home to cover up his own mistakes.
Even if he is truly sorry now, how do I know he won’t do something like this in the future?
What would you do in my place?
