I saw the pain in his eyes, caught in the middle. “You took advantage of her kindness and tried to push her into a nursing home!” I snapped, my anger boiling. “You got what you deserved!”
“You can’t just kick us out!” Sylva screamed, her voice cracking, tears streaming as the social workers stood calmly by.
Mom sat in her wheelchair, a small smile on her face. “You’ve got a new place now,” she said. “And honestly, that’s not my concern.
I helped you, and all you did was complain. You didn’t want to be here—you were just stuck. Now you can manage on your own.”
Sylva’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide with shock, like she’d been slapped.
Dren stood frozen, his face a mix of anger and shame, knowing the whole neighborhood would hear about this. The social workers stepped in, calmly explaining the housing setup—a small apartment near their jobs. They’d be fine, but they were too busy yelling to see it.
As they stormed out, still ranting, it was clear they’d lost this fight. “I’m sorry,” Vion told Mom later, as we helped her settle in. “This is my fault.”
Mom took his hand, shaking her head.
“It’s not your fault, Vion. They needed a place, and I welcomed them. But they made things hard here.
Everything was a problem.”
While they talked, I busied myself in the kitchen, making Vion’s favorite curry to cheer him up. Deep down, I felt guilty too. I should’ve stopped them from moving in, but we were desperate to help when they lost their home.
Maybe it was guilt from not taking them in ourselves. That night, as we got into bed, I told Vion we should check on his parents. “Even after this, we need to make sure they’re okay,” I said.
The next day, we visited their new apartment. It was small but cozy, with boxes scattered and the faint smell of burnt toast. “Didn’t check the toaster,” Dren mumbled, embarrassed.
We took them to a café for lunch, where they finally owned up to their mistakes. “We were wrong,” Sylva admitted, poking at her salad. “We saw an easy life at your mom’s and got greedy.
Now we have to make this work.”
Vion didn’t hold back. “You embarrassed me,” he said, voice steady but sharp. “You used my wife’s mom.
Do you know how that feels?”
I let him speak, watching his parents eat their sandwiches in silence, heads bowed. On the drive home, Vion stopped to buy Mom a bouquet of flowers. “She deserves it,” he said.
What would you have done?
