When I was 12, my mom walked out to be with another man, leaving my dad to raise me alone. I never forgave her. Now I’m 28, my dad is gone, and the house is mine. Out of nowhere, she called me last week—terminally ill, wanting to “make amends” and move in. She even said, “It would mean a lot to stay in the home I raised you in.” But I reminded her: “You didn’t raise me. You left.” She cried, accused me of cruelty, and begged. I refused.
The next morning, police knocked on my door. A neighbor reported an unresponsive woman on my steps—it was her. She had sat there for hours with her bags, and likely collapsed from exhaustion or skipping her meds. At the hospital, they asked if I was her emergency contact. I said no.
Guilt hit me, but so did the truth: I’ve spent years grieving a living mother who chose someone else. Now she wants back in only because she has nowhere else to go. I can’t open my door to someone who slammed it on me first.
