My son, Michael, surprised me with a cottage in the countryside, but when we got there, I realized it was all a trick. After a while, I discovered the real reason why he did this, and I still can’t forgive him. What would you do?
Hello! My name is Richard, and I’m 68 years old. I never thought I’d be asking strangers for advice, but here I am. I need some outside perspective on this.
For some background: I’ve been a single dad for most of my adult life. My wife, Emma, passed away from cancer when our son, Michael (currently 35 years old), was just ten years old.
It was a difficult time for both of us, but we managed to pull through together.
Since then, it’s been just the two of us against the world. I did my best to be both mother and father to him, working hard to give him every opportunity I could.
Growing up, Michael was a good kid. He had his moments of rebellion, sure, but overall, he was kind, hardworking, and seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.
He did well in school, went to college on a partial scholarship, and landed a good job in finance after graduation.
I’ve always been immensely proud of him, watching him grow into what I thought was a successful adult.
We remained close even after he moved out, talking on the phone regularly and having dinner together at least once a week.
That’s why what happened over a year ago came as such a shock.
It was a Tuesday evening when Michael came to my house, brimming with excitement. “Dad,” he said, “I’ve got amazing news! I bought you a cottage in the countryside!”
“A cottage? Michael, what are you talking about?“
“It’s perfect, Dad. It’s peaceful, serene, and just what you need. You’re going to love it!”
I was taken aback. Move to a cottage far from here? That seemed like too much. “Michael, you didn’t have to do that. I’m perfectly happy here.”
But he insisted! “No, Dad, you deserve it. The house you’re in now is TOO BIG FOR YOU ALONE. It’s time for a change. Trust me, this is going to be great for you.”
I have to admit, I was skeptical. The house I was living in had been our family home for over 30 years. It was where Michael grew up, where Emma and I had built our life together.
But my son seemed so excited, so sure that this was the right move. And I trusted him completely. After all, we’d always been honest with each other.
So, against my better judgment, I agreed to move and sell my house.
The next few days, I was packing and preparing to leave, while Michael handled most of the details. He assured me that everything was taken care of.
He was being so helpful that I pushed aside my lingering doubts.
Finally, the day came for us to drive to my new home. As we got in the car, Michael was chatting away about all the amenities this new place had.
But as we drove further and further from the city, I started feeling uneasy. The scenery became more and more desolate. It wasn’t woodsy or hillside.
Our familiar neighbor and the bustling streets of the city were gone and all that was left were empty, ugly fields, and even an abandoned farm.
The cottages nearby, which Michael knew I had admired and considered buying when his mother was alive, were cozy, homey places, surrounded by nature. This was the opposite.
“Michael,” I wondered, “are you sure we’re going the right way? This doesn’t look like cottage country to me.”
He assured me we were on the right track, but I noticed he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.
After about another hour of driving, we turned onto a long, winding driveway. At the end of it stood a large, boring building.
My heart sank as I read the sign: “Sunset Haven.”
This wasn’t a cottage. It was a nursing home.
I turned to Michael, trying to quell my emotions. “What is this? What’s going on?”
“Dad,” he said, but couldn’t even look me in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I said it was a cottage, but… this is better for you. You’ll be taken care of here.”
“Taken care of? I don’t need to be taken care of! I’m perfectly capable of living on my own. Why would you lie to me?“
“Dad, please.” Michael finally turned to me, and his eyes were pleading. “You’ve been forgetting things lately. I’m worried about you living alone. This place has great facilities, and there will always be someone around if you need help.”
“Forgetting things? Everyone forgets things sometimes!” I yelled, and angry tears fell from my eyes. “This isn’t right, Michael. Take me home right now.”
Michael shook his head and dropped the real bombshell of the day. “I can’t do that, Dad. I’ve… I’ve already sold the house.”
I felt like the ground had disappeared from under me. I knew I had agreed to sell, but I had all the time in the world. I wanted to meet the new owners, pick a nice family, and hell, tell them exactly how to care for the old Elm tree in the yard.
How could he have sold it without my knowledge or consent?
I demanded answers, but Michael was evasive. He mentioned something about having power of attorney and doing what was best for me.
I shut down after that, and the next few hours were a blur.
Somehow, I ended up checked into Sunset Haven and was led to a small room with a narrow bed and a window overlooking a parking lot.
The walls were a sickly shade of beige, and the air smelled of disinfectant and old people.
My old home retained the scent of my wife’s cinnamon coffee cake, and I never changed her decor choices. My only upgrades were new appliances when needed, and Michael had given me an Alexa.
But now, this sad, clinical place was my new home.
I couldn’t do anything about it, either. I thought about Michael’s words while I spent the next few days in shock and anger. Was I so far gone that I forgot everything?
Was this the right thing? Had I caused Michael harm? Had I been diagnosed with dementia or something?
I couldn’t imagine any of that, but Michael’s parting look of guilt and concern left me dubious.
The staff at Sunset Haven were kind enough, and they tried to engage me in activities to make me feel welcome. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
It was during an afternoon of more stewing in my feelings that I overheard a conversation that made everything even worse.
I was sitting in the common room, pretending to read a magazine, when I heard two nurses talking in hushed tones nearby.
“Poor Mr. Johnson,” one of them said. “Did you hear about his son?”
“No, what happened?”
“Apparently, he had some pretty big gambling debts. That’s why he sold his dad’s house and put him in here.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Gambling debts? Was that the real reason behind all of this? Had my son sold me out, quite literally, to cover his own mistakes?
I was even more devastated.
The son I’d raised, the boy I thought I knew better than anyone, had discarded me for selfish reasons.
I thought back to all the times I’d helped him out of tight spots, all the sacrifices I’d made to give him a good life.
Luckily, fate intervened in the form of an old friend. Jack, a lawyer I’d known for years, came to Sunset Haven to visit his sister and was shocked to find me there.
When I told him what happened, he was outraged. He offered to look into the legality of what Michael had done.
It turned out that the sale of my house had been rushed, with several legal corners cut in the process. With Jack’s help, I was able to contest the sale.
After a long battle that ended with Michael having to return the money he took from the buyers and pay all the legal fees, I finally got my home back and moved out of Sunset Haven.
Now, here’s where I need advice.
My son has been trying to apologize. He showed up at my house last week, and I hardly recognized him. He looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in weeks.
When I let him in, he broke down.
He told me how he’d started gambling to cope with stress at work, how things had spiraled out of control, and how he’d convinced himself that selling my house and putting me in a home was the best solution for everyone.
He swore he’d been getting help for his addiction and was committed to making things right.
“I was wrong, Dad,” he sobbed. “So wrong. Can you ever forgive me?“
Part of me wants to let bygones be bygones. He’s my son, and we only have each other in this world. But another part of me is still so angry and hurt.
How can I trust him again after what he did? He lied to me, manipulated me, and stole my home to cover up his own mistakes.
Even if he’s truly sorry now, how do I know he won’t do something like this again in the future?
What would you do in my place?
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
Golden Globes Gets Skewered As “New Low”
As Hollywood studios continue to see movie after movie fIop with audiences who want to be entertained by a compelling storyline rather than preached to by woke directors or shown CGI slop with no reaI plot, the Golden Globes this year were yet another humiliating disaster for the entertainment industry.
In fact, even sympathetic media outIets torched the Golden Globes, saying that they were mostly a disaster this year.
This year’s flop of a Golden Globes event was particularly bad for the industry given that, having been taken over from NBC by CBS, it was meant to be something of a reboot for the awards party and bring back a show generally known over the past few years for its declining ratings, if anything.
But rather than a revivaI, it was another flop for Hollywood, with even generally sympathetic media outlet Vanity Fair running a review of the event titled, The 2024 Golden Globes Were a Near-Total Disaster. Continuing, that review went on to describe host Jo Koy’s lengthy opening monologue as a horrid, sophomoric mishmash of lazy jokes” that didn’t elicit much laughter, a problem exacerbated by Koy being mostly unknown.
Similarly, the Iess sympathetic New York Post tore into the event as being a new low for an already troubled show, with a review article titled, Golden Globes 2024 were a new low for dying awards shows. Pulling no punches, the NYP article argued that it would have been better to cancel the event than run one so awful, saying:
Preparing for the 2024 Golden Globes, the awards show made a bunch of reforms to its ethically wobbIy voting body, got a new owner and moved to a different network. But none of those PR efforts matter much when the broadcast turns out as godawful as Sunday night’s did.
If only we’d 100% canceled the Globes when we had the chance.
Conservatives on X were simiIarly harsh. Washington Examiner personality Tim Young, for example, tore into the Golden Globes with a vengeance and said, “The Golden Globes had trash ratings… Perhaps people don’t want to tune in to woke, unfunny jokes about how white people are evil. Maybe their host should lecture at Harvard… I’m sure he’d be a hit there.”
Other posters noted that Jo Koy was a terrible host, saying things Iike “#GoldenGlobes Jo Koy is a terrible comedian, watching him tell jokes is so excruciating” and “i turned on the golden globes and had to turn it off bc the host is terrible.”
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