Michelle’s sons promised they’d never send her to a nursing home.
They lied.
Two days before her 81st birthday, they handed her paperwork and a one-way ticket to a facility across town. “It’s for your own good,” they said, already counting the money from selling her house.
Michelle begged. She cried. But they didn’t listen.
Then Brad, her grandson, came home.
“Where’s Grandma?” he asked.
His father avoided his gaze. “She… wanted to go.”
Brad didn’t buy it. He found Michelle in the nursing home, her spirit broken. “I’ll fix this,” he swore.
He tracked down the man who bought her house and made an offer he couldn’t refuse: “Name your price.”
Days later, Brad wheeled Michelle up her old driveway. “Welcome home, Grandma.”
She sobbed as she turned the key in the lock. Every memory came flooding back—her husband’s laughter, family dinners, the life she thought she’d lost.
Simon and Kevin showed up later, shamefaced. “We’re sorry,” they mumbled.
Michelle nodded but didn’t speak. Some apologies come too late.
Brad, though? He became her rock. Because sometimes, the greatest love comes from the generation you least expect.
