My Daughter-in-Law Is Trying to Teach Me Lessons? In My Own House That I Paid For? I Told My Son.

Lucas had promised me he would come for lunch. I prepared his favorite meal: roast chicken with mashed potatoes, fresh salad, a homemade cheesecake that took me all morning to make.

I set the table nicely. I brought out the good plates, the ones we only used on special occasions.

My husband was still alive; he was also waiting for Lucas. We both sat down to wait.

An hour passed, then two. I called Lucas three times; he did not answer.

I sent him texts; nothing. The food got cold.

My husband hugged me and told me he surely had an emergency at work. I wanted to believe him.

At 7:00 in the evening, Lucas finally called.

“Sorry, Mom, the day got complicated. I promise I will come next week.”

His voice sounded normal. It did not sound guilty; it did not sound regretful.

It sounded as if forgetting your mother’s birthday was something unimportant.

“No problem, son. I love you.”

I hung up the phone and cried in silence while I threw the food in the trash. But that was just the beginning.

After that, the cancellations became frequent. He always had an excuse.

There was always something more important: a last-minute meeting, a commitment with Victoria’s family, a headache, exhaustion, traffic. I always understood.

I always told him not to worry, that the important thing was for him to be okay. But inside, something was breaking.

Then came Christmas last year, the last Christmas we spent with my husband alive. I had asked Lucas to come for dinner; I begged him.

My husband was already sick; we already knew he did not have much time left. I wanted one last Christmas together, the three of us as a family.

Lucas said yes; he promised me he would be there. I prepared everything weeks in advance.

I bought gifts. I decorated the house.

I cooked for two days straight. I made a glazed ham, eggnog, gingerbread cookies, everything Lucas liked as a child.

My husband helped me where he could. He was so weak he could barely stand, but he also wanted that dinner.

He also wanted to see his son. The table was ready at 8:00 in the evening, the candles lit, the food hot.

My husband sitting in his chair with the portable oxygen tank beside him, waiting. 8:30, 9:30.

I called Lucas; he did not answer. I sent him texts; nothing.

At 10:00 at night, my husband stood up slowly. He looked at me with those tired eyes that no longer had a spark.

“Let us eat, Patricia. He will come another day.”

But we both knew there was no other day, that that was the last chance. We ate in silence, the table full of food, only two people, a huge void where our son should have been.

The next day, Lucas sent me a message.

“Sorry, Mom, Victoria organized a dinner with her family and I could not get away. Merry Christmas.”

He did not come to visit us in the entire month of December, nor in January, nor in February. My husband died in March.

Lucas arrived at the funeral. He cried.

He hugged the coffin. He said he loved his father, but he did not visit him when he was alive.

He was not there when we needed him most. And I forgave him because mothers always forgive, because I thought the pain would change him, that his father’s death would bring him back to me.

I was wrong. I kept remembering.

More things kept coming back, more details I had ignored. Like that time I saw him at the grocery store.

I was buying vegetables. I saw him on the other side of the aisle with Victoria.

I raised my hand to wave to him, but he looked away quickly as if he had not seen me. Victoria grabbed him by the arm and took him down another aisle.

I stayed there with my hand still raised, feeling invisible. Or like when I called him because the kitchen pipe had burst.

My husband had just died. I did not know who to call.

Lucas told me he was busy, that I should call a plumber. He sent me a number by text and hung up.

I had to pay $200 I did not have. I had to take money out of the savings for the funeral.

Or like when I invited him to my house for his birthday. I told him I had made him a cake, that I wanted to see him.

He told me maybe, that he was going to see if he could. He never arrived.

I saw on his social media that he had gone to an expensive restaurant with Victoria and her friends. In the photo, he was smiling, happy, surrounded by people who were not me.

All those times I had found excuses. I told myself it was normal, that children grow up, that they make their own lives, that you cannot expect them to always be with you.

But now, sitting in my empty living room, I understood the truth. It was not that Lucas was busy; it was that Lucas was erasing me.

And it was not something recent. It had not started after my husband’s death; it had started much earlier.

Since he married Victoria, she had been pushing him away little by little with comments, with plans, with excuses, and he had let it happen. I got up from the sofa and went to my bedroom.

I opened the closet and took out an old shoe box I kept on the top shelf. Inside were photos, memories, letters Lucas had written to me when he was a child.

I took out a photo from when he was 7 years old. We were both at the park.

He had ice cream on his face. I was hugging him.

We were both laughing. Where had that boy gone?

I put the photo away and kept searching. I found another one.

It was from the day of his college graduation. I was so proud.

I had worked extra shifts for four years to pay for his studies. I had broken my back cleaning offices so he would not have to worry about money.

In the photo, he was hugging me. He was telling me in my ear,

“Thanks, Mom. Everything I am is because of you.”

I closed the box. I could not keep looking; it hurt too much.

That night, I did not sleep either. I stayed up thinking about everything.

About every detail, about every lie, about every time they made me feel that I was the problem, that I was the one exaggerating, that I was the one asking for too much. But it was not true.

I was not asking for too much. I only asked for the minimum: a call, a visit, a little bit of time, a little bit of love.

And they did not even give me that. I got up and went to the kitchen.

I made tea. I sat by the window and looked at the empty street.

It was 3:00 in the morning. There was no one outside, just me and my thoughts.

And then I realized something. Victoria had not come to my house that day to help me.

She had come for something else. To test something.

To see how far she could go. To see if I was going to let her.

And when I laughed, when I confronted her, when I did not let myself be humiliated, when she raised that purse and I did not move, there she lost. But this was not over.

I knew that women like Victoria do not give up easily. And men like Lucas, so weak, so manipulatable, can do anything if someone tells them it is the right thing.

I finished my tea. I washed the cup.

I went back to my room, but before going to bed, I did something I had not done in a long time. I opened the drawer of my nightstand and took out an old notebook.

A notebook where my husband and I kept important documents. I turned the pages slowly.

Deeds, receipts, bills. Everything was there, everything in order, everything in my name.

I closed the notebook and put it back. If something was coming, I was going to be ready.