Nowa żona mojego syna próbowała delikatnie wepchnąć mnie do „domu seniorów” — nie wiedziała, że ​​już zdecydowałem, kto tak naprawdę się wyprowadza.

I ate breakfast in the kitchen without hearing comments about my food.

I sat on my sofa in my spot without anyone having moved it.

But sometimes I’d sit down to watch television and turn to comment on something to Adrien—and he wasn’t there.

I’d cook rice and make too much because I still wasn’t used to cooking just for one.

At night, when I went to bed, the weight of the silence felt like a stone on my chest.

On Wednesday, I went to yoga with Margaret.

She hugged me as soon as she saw me.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Surviving,” I said.

“Has Adrien called?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “And I haven’t called him.”

“Do you want to call him?” she asked.

“Every day,” I admitted. “But I’m not going to. Because if I call him now, he’ll think I regret it. And I don’t regret it. Margaret, it hurts, but I don’t regret it.”

She nodded.

“You are so brave, Eleanor,” she said.

“I don’t feel brave,” I replied. “I feel alone.”

“But you’re still standing,” she said. “And that’s what matters.”

On Friday, I got a call from an unknown number.

I answered cautiously.

“Mrs. Eleanor Lopez?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?” I replied.

“This is Attorney Fernandez,” he said. “I represent Mrs. Chloe Torres. My client has instructed me to contact you to negotiate the terms of the vacating notice.”

“There’s nothing to negotiate,” I said. “They have thirty days. That’s it.”

“Mrs. Lopez,” he said, “my client is willing to reach an agreement. They are going through a difficult financial time. They need more time to find a suitable place.”

“That is not my problem,” I replied.

“Mrs. Lopez, I must remind you that your son was also affected by this decision,” he said. “Don’t you care about the well-being of your own son?”

I felt the rage rise in my throat.

“My son made his decision,” I said. “And now he has to live with the consequences. The thirty days are running. If you need more information, you can speak with my lawyer, Mr. Hayes. Good afternoon.”

And I hung up.

My hands were shaking, but I felt strong.

For the first time, I felt strong.

Saturday morning, during my walk with the group, one of the ladies asked about Adrien.

“And your son, Eleanor? We haven’t seen him in a while,” she said.

“He doesn’t live with me anymore,” I said simply.

“Oh, he moved out with his wife?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” she said. “It was about time he started his own life.”

“Yes,” I repeated, though inside I felt like I was lying to myself.

On Sunday, I went to church.

I hadn’t been in years. But that morning, I felt like I needed to be somewhere I could think, where I could pray, where I could ask someone—anyone—to tell me everything was going to be okay.

I sat in the very back, in an empty pew.

The pastor talked about forgiveness. About how forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting. About how forgiveness is about freeing yourself from the weight of resentment.

I left without any answers, but with one clear question.

Could I forgive Adrien without allowing him to hurt me again?

That afternoon, as I was sitting in my living room reading a book, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and found Adrien standing on the porch.

He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, thinner than before.

“Hi, Mom,” he said quietly.

“Hello, Adrien,” I replied.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

I thought for a second.

Then I stepped aside.

“Come in,” I said.

We went into the living room and sat down.

He sat on the big sofa. I sat in my favorite armchair, the one Chloe had wanted to get rid of.

“I came to talk to you,” he said.

“I’m listening,” I replied.

“Mom,” he began, “these past few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about everything that happened. About how we got to this point.”

I waited in silence.

“And I think… I think I was wrong,” he said.

I felt something shift in my chest, but I said nothing. Not yet.

“I was wrong not to defend you,” he continued. “I was wrong to let Chloe and her mom treat you like that. I was wrong to believe that you were the problem when the problem was always me—for being a coward. For not wanting to face the situation.”

Tears started to roll down his cheeks.

“Forgive me, Mom,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

I looked at him.

At my son. The boy I had raised. The man who had disappointed me. The man who was now in front of me, broken, asking for forgiveness.

“Adrien,” I said slowly, “I forgive you.”

He looked up.

“But forgiving you doesn’t mean things go back to the way they were,” I added.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that if you want to come back and live here, there are conditions,” I said.

“What conditions?” he asked.

“Chloe and her mother never set foot in this house again,” I said. “Ever. You can come back, but they cannot.”

Adrien was quiet.

“And what if I want to stay with Chloe?” he asked.

“That’s your decision,” I said. “But if you stay with her, you don’t live here.”

“Mom, she’s my wife,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“And you have to decide what’s more important to you.”

Adrien just stared at me, his eyes full of tears.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

He got up from the sofa and walked to the window.

“I can’t believe you’re making me choose,” he said, his voice choked.

“I’m not making you choose, Adrien,” I said. “You already chose weeks ago when you let them treat me like trash in my own house. Now I’m just telling you the consequences of that choice.”

He turned to face me.

“And what if I told you I’m going to divorce Chloe?” he asked.

“Would you?” I asked.

He was silent.

And in that silence, I found my answer.

“Adrien, I don’t want you to make decisions out of obligation,” I said. “I don’t want you to come back here just because you have nowhere else to go. I want you to come back because you truly understand what you did wrong. Because you truly want to change.”

“I do want to change, Mom,” he said.

“Then do it,” I replied. “But do it for you. Not for me. Not for this house. For you.”

Adrien came over and knelt in front of me.

He took my hands in his.

“Mom, I swear I’m going to fix this,” he said. “I’m going to talk to Chloe. I’m going to set boundaries. I’m going to—”

“Adrien,” I interrupted gently, “what you do or don’t do with Chloe is your business. I’ve already made my decision. And my decision is to live in peace—with or without you.”

I said it.

I finally said it out loud.

And even though it hurt, it also freed me.

Adrien let go of my hands and stood up.

He wiped his tears on the back of his hand.

“So this is how we’re going to end,” he said. “Separated.”

“I don’t know, son,” I said. “That depends on you. On the decisions you make now. On whether you learn from this or if you continue to be the same man who allowed me to be humiliated.”

He just stood there, not knowing what else to say.

Then he nodded slowly and walked to the door.

“I’ll call you,” he said before he left.

“Okay,” I replied.

And he left again.

But this time was different.

This time I didn’t feel like he was leaving for good.

I felt like he was leaving to think. To grow. To decide what kind of man he wanted to be.

The days kept passing.

One week.

Two weeks.

Three weeks.

Adrien called me every few days.

Short conversations.

Awkward at first.