My son called to say they’d moved to another state last week and « forgotten » to tell me… so I wished him luck, hung up, and opened the folder I’d been secretly creating.

George was gone.

But I was still there.

Alive. Present. Invisible.

Ryan didn’t correct her. He simply raised his glass and smiled, as the script dictated.

That night I rode home alone in a taxi that smelled of pine and stale cigarettes, and I felt a cold inside me.

I made a decision in the backseat: I would no longer beg for a place in my son’s life. If they wanted to throw me out, let them try.

But it won’t be as easy as they thought.

The months that followed felt like watching someone die in slow motion—only that someone was my relationship with my son. Every missed phone call, every « I’ll call you later, Mom » ​​that never came, tore another piece of me away.

On my sixty-sixth birthday, I woke up early, made coffee, and then sat at the kitchen table waiting for the phone to ring, which usually happened around 7 a.m. – Ryan would sing “Happy Birthday” off-key, but with full gusto.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

At ten o’clock a text arrived: Happy birthday, Mom. Sorry I didn’t call. I had an early meeting. We love you very much.

Mine.

Plural, as if Vanessa’s love for me was real.

I didn’t answer. I stared at the screen until something inside me snapped, but there was no sound.

In March, my friend Eleanor dragged me along to a family gathering because she could read my loneliness like an open book.

« Come on, Stella. You can’t be alone all the time. »

I went there and heard words that confirmed what my heart already knew, but which my mind still refused to say out loud.

I was in the kitchen making punch when I heard Eleanor’s cousin, Rose, talking in the living room. I tried not to listen, but my name floated through the air like a siren.

« Sandra works with Vanessa, » Rose said. « She says Vanessa constantly complains about her mother-in-law. She says she’s too dependent and constantly seeking attention. She says Ryan can’t live his life because his mother won’t let him. »

The ladle fell from my hand and the hot punch spilled onto the floor.

“What did Ryan say?” someone asked.

Well… Ryan isn’t sticking up for her anymore. According to Sandra, Vanessa says Ryan’s mother called her crying because she hadn’t heard from them in three weeks, and Vanessa told him his mother was manipulative and used tears to make him feel guilty.

Manipulative.

Yes.

The woman who worked double shifts as a secretary so my son could study engineering. The woman who sold everything she owned to have more. The widow who never remarried because I poured my heart and soul into raising him.

I left Eleanor’s house without saying goodbye. Outside, she caught up with me, out of breath.

Stella, wait a minute. Don’t listen to them. They’re just rumors.

« Gossiping? » I asked, tears welling up in my eyes. « Eleanor, my son doesn’t talk to me. And when he does, it’s like ticking a box. His wife hates me, and he lets it happen. It’s not gossiping. It’s my life. »

That evening I did something I never expected. I looked up Vanessa on Facebook.

Her profile was a veritable gallery: elegant restaurants, beach photos, parties, perfect smiles, captions about true love. I kept scrolling until I found a Christmas photo—the same Christmas I’d experienced at the table in the country house.

Vanessa. Ryan. Her parents.

Caption: Christmas with family, how lucky we are to have the best in-laws in the world.

I wasn’t there. Not a word. Not a comment. Not a trace.

I slammed my laptop shut so hard the screen shook. My palms felt clammy. My heart pounded like it wanted to jump out.

The worst happened in April, during a family dinner hosted by Patty, George’s sister. It was her daughter’s birthday. Everyone was together. I arrived early, as always, to help.