I worked abroad for three years, sending money to my sister to take care of my mother, but when I came home, I saw what terrible conditions my mother was living in.
When I first stepped out of the taxi in front of our old house, the one I had left behind with such heavy hesitation, I froze. The walls looked worn and stained, paint peeling in large patches. The front gate leaned crookedly as though it hadn’t been fixed in years. Weeds crawled up the walkway, cracks ran through the cement path, and the once colorful flower pots my mother used to tend so lovingly were either broken or filled with nothing but dry soil.
I stood there gripping the handle of my suitcase, unable to move for a few seconds. For three long years, I had imagined this homecoming very differently. I thought I would walk in to see my mother smiling, her health at least stable, the house alive with her care.
I thought I would thank my sister, Helena, for looking after her while I was away working in factories overseas. Every month without fail, I wired almost every dollar I earned back home, telling myself I was sacrificing for the sake of my mother’s well-being.
But as soon as I opened the door, a sharp smell hit me—stale food, dampness, something sour. My stomach twisted. The hallway was dim, the curtains closed tight, though it was still afternoon. Dust floated in the air, and the floor was sticky under my shoes. I dragged my suitcase behind me, calling softly, “Mom? Helena?”
No answer.
I followed the faint sound of coughing that drifted down the corridor. When I reached my mother’s bedroom, I froze in shock.
The man who had endured the noise of clanging machines and sleepless nights abroad now stood speechless at the sight of his mother.
She was weakly leaning against a pillow on the bed, her silver hair uncombed, her face thin and pale. Her shoulders hunched under the weight of exhaustion. All around her was chaos—food containers tossed carelessly on the floor, fruit peels rotting in the corners, banana skins darkening, apple cores left to attract flies. Empty milk cartons lay beside piles of dirty clothes. On the bedside table sat a glass of water half-filled with dust particles, and scattered pills rolled near the edge.
My heart clenched as if someone had gripped it tightly. “Mom…” I whispered, rushing forward.
Her eyes, once so lively, opened slowly. For a moment, they lit up in recognition, and she tried to smile. “David…” Her voice cracked, barely audible. “You’re home.”
I took her fragile hand in mine. It felt too light, too cold. “Mom, what is this? What happened? Why are you—why is the room like this?”
She shook her head faintly. “I… didn’t want to bother anyone. Helena… she’s busy.”
I swallowed hard. “Busy? I sent money every month. I thought she was taking care of you. Where is she now?”
“She goes out… often. She says she has things to do,” my mother murmured, lowering her eyes as if ashamed of revealing the truth.
At that moment, rage and betrayal burned inside me. All those years—every cent I could spare, every sacrifice I made, every night I lay awake missing home—I had trusted Helena. She promised me she would look after Mom. She promised me that the money I sent would be used for medicine, healthy food, and repairs for the house.
Instead, I was staring at a broken woman who had clearly been neglected.
I helped my mother sit up properly, brushing crumbs from her blanket. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she tried to protest. “You’ve worked so hard already, my son. You shouldn’t have to—”
“Stop,” I said gently but firmly. “You are my mother. Everything I did was for you. I’ll fix this.”
After making sure she sipped clean water, I went around the room collecting trash. The stench was unbearable, and my hands trembled as I picked up carton after carton, peel after peel. I couldn’t understand how Helena could let it get this bad.
Just as I was tying up a bag of garbage, the front door slammed, and footsteps echoed through the house. Helena’s voice rang out, annoyed. “Who’s in the house?”
I stepped into the hallway, glaring as she appeared, dressed in new clothes I had never seen before—fashionable, expensive-looking, and completely out of place in our crumbling home. Her eyes widened when she saw me. “David? You’re back?”
“Yes,” I replied coldly. “Back to find our mother sick, living in filth. Care to explain?”
Her expression flickered—shock, then guilt, then quick anger. “You don’t understand. I’ve been under a lot of pressure. I tried my best—”
“Your best?” I snapped. “I sent you money every month. Thousands. Enough to keep Mom comfortable, to keep this house in decent condition. Where is it, Helena? Because it’s not here.”
She crossed her arms defensively. “You think it’s easy? I had expenses. Life is expensive. Do you know what it’s like to handle everything alone while you’re off in another country?”
“Don’t twist this,” I shot back. “I know exactly how hard life is—I’ve been breaking my back for three years in another land, eating the cheapest meals, sleeping on a thin mattress in a room with six other men, just to make sure Mom was cared for. And what did you do? Buy new clothes? Go out while she wasted away here?”
Her cheeks flushed red, but she stayed silent.
“Answer me!” I demanded.
Finally, she muttered, “I used some of the money for myself. I deserved it. I’ve been stuck here while you’ve got to leave.”
The words cut through me like a blade. “You deserved it? And Mom deserved to live in this mess? To starve? To sit alone surrounded by trash?”
From the bedroom, my mother’s frail voice called, “Please, don’t fight…”
I turned back, forcing myself to calm down for her sake. But deep inside, I knew things couldn’t continue like this.
That night, after cleaning my mother’s room as best as I could and cooking her a simple meal of rice and soup, I sat in the kitchen with my head in my hands. Helena stayed in her room, refusing to face me again.
I thought about all the lost time. About how many nights Mom had probably sat hungry, waiting for Helena to return. About how many days she had tried to stand up and cook for herself, only to fail and collapse back into bed. The guilt gnawed at me—if I hadn’t gone abroad, if I had stayed, maybe none of this would have happened.
But then I reminded myself: I had gone because I wanted her to have better. Because we couldn’t afford medicine otherwise. Because there was no work here that paid enough.
I whispered to myself, “It’s not too late. I can still make it right.”
The following days were grueling. I cleaned every corner of the house, aired out the rooms, and washed every sheet and blanket. I took Mom to the clinic, where the doctor frowned at her condition and prescribed proper medication and a strict diet. He told me she was malnourished and weak but could recover with consistent care.
I cooked her meals, sat by her side, and listened to her stories, even the ones I had heard many times before. Her smile slowly began to return, faint but real. Every time she said, “You’re here now, and that’s enough,” I felt both comforted and crushed.
Helena, however, became colder. She avoided me most of the time, muttering under her breath that I made her feel like a villain. One evening, she finally confronted me in the kitchen.
“You think you’re some kind of hero because you came back?” she sneered. “You don’t know what it was like. I was lonely. I wanted a life too.”
I looked at her tiredly. “I never asked you to give up your life completely. But you had one responsibility—our mother. You could have used even half the money for her, and she would have been fine. Instead, you left her to suffer.”
Her eyes flickered with something—regret, maybe—but she quickly masked it. “Fine. If you think you can do better, then do it. I’m done.”
And she left.
At first, I thought she just needed space. But days turned into weeks, and Helena barely came home. She stopped contributing entirely, leaving everything on my shoulders.
It was exhausting, yes, but strangely, I was relieved. At least now I knew Mom was getting the care she deserved. At least now I could trust myself.
As time passed, my mother grew stronger. Her cheeks regained a little color, her laughter came more easily, and she often reached out to squeeze my hand, whispering, “Thank you, David.”
I would smile and shake my head. “No, Mom. Thank you for waiting for me.”
One quiet evening, after helping her settle into bed, I sat outside on the porch, looking at the stars. For the first time in years, I felt a sense of peace. I had lost faith in Helena, yes, but I had found something deeper—the unbreakable bond between my mother and me.
I realized then that money alone could never guarantee comfort or love. It was presence, care, and sacrifice that truly mattered. And though I couldn’t undo the years of neglect she had endured, I could make sure her remaining years were filled with dignity and warmth.
And so, with determination in my heart, I whispered to the night sky, “I’m home for good, Mom. You’ll never be alone again.”
