I worked abroad for three years, sending money to my sister to take care of my mother, but when I came home, I saw what terrible conditions my mother was living in. When I first stepped out of the taxi in front of our old house, the one I had left behind with such heavy hesitation, I froze. The walls looked worn and stained, paint peeling in large patches.
The front gate leaned crookedly as though it hadn’t been fixed in years. Weeds crawled up the walkway, cracks ran through the cement path, and the once colorful flower pots my mother used to tend so lovingly were either broken or filled with nothing but dry soil. I stood there gripping the handle of my suitcase, unable to move for a few seconds.
For three long years, I had imagined this homecoming very differently. I thought I would walk in to see my mother smiling, her health at least stable, the house alive with her care. I thought I would thank my sister, Helena, for looking after her while I was away working in factories overseas.
Every month without fail, I wired almost every dollar I earned back home, telling myself I was sacrificing for the sake of my mother’s well-being. But as soon as I opened the door, a sharp smell hit me—stale food, dampness, something sour. My stomach twisted.
The hallway was dim, the curtains closed tight, though it was still afternoon. Dust floated in the air, and the floor was sticky under my shoes. I dragged my suitcase behind me, calling softly, “Mom?
Helena?”
No answer. I followed the faint sound of coughing that drifted down the corridor. When I reached my mother’s bedroom, I froze in shock.
The man who had endured the noise of clanging machines and sleepless nights abroad now stood speechless at the sight of his mother. She was weakly leaning against a pillow on the bed, her silver hair uncombed, her face thin and pale. Her shoulders hunched under the weight of exhaustion.
All around her was chaos—food containers tossed carelessly on the floor, fruit peels rotting in the corners, banana skins darkening, apple cores left to attract flies. Empty milk cartons lay beside piles of dirty clothes. On the bedside table sat a glass of water half-filled with dust particles, and scattered pills rolled near the edge.
My heart clenched as if someone had gripped it tightly. “Mom…” I whispered, rushing forward. Her eyes, once so lively, opened slowly.
For a moment, they lit up in recognition, and she tried to smile. “David…” Her voice cracked, barely audible. “You’re home.”
I took her fragile hand in mine.
It felt too light, too cold. “Mom, what is this? What happened?
Why are you—why is the room like this?”
She shook her head faintly. “I… didn’t want to bother anyone. Helena… she’s busy.”
I swallowed hard.
“Busy? I sent money every month. I thought she was taking care of you.
Where is she now?”
“She goes out… often. She says she has things to do,” my mother murmured, lowering her eyes as if ashamed of revealing the truth. At that moment, rage and betrayal burned inside me.
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