In my life, as it seemed to me until recently, there hadn’t been many events worth a long story.

I always lived quietly. Unnoticed. Even in my own apartment, which my late husband and I got back in the day during government housing programs, over time I became like a shadow.

A thing that takes up space but is no longer noticed. For the last 10 years, this apartment belonged not to me, but to young life. The life of my son Gene and his wife Zoe.

I occupied the smallest room, the one that used to be a storage closet. My books, photos of my husband, the old armchair where he loved to read newspapers—all of it gradually moved here, making way for the fashionable, bright, and empty space that Zoe liked so much. I didn’t argue.

Why? The main thing was for my son to be happy. Every morning of mine started the same way. I got up before everyone, at six, so as not to make noise, not to disturb the young ones sleeping.

On tiptoes, I went to the kitchen, put oatmeal on to cook for Gene, brewed two different teas—for him stronger, for Zoe some special one with petals and exotic herbs that made my own throat scratch. For myself, I brewed simple black tea and drank it in my room so as not to be seen. My Social Security check went entirely into the common pot, down to the last cent.

“Mom, why do you need money?” Gene would say, awkwardly looking away. “We buy everything together.” And I agreed.

Really, why? I wore old clothes, went out rarely, only to the store or pharmacy. All my desires had long dried up, shriveled to one—seeing my son happy. I remember giving all my savings, which I’d saved for eye surgery, when Zoe urgently needed a new coat.

“Mommy, you understand,” she cooed, hugging my shoulders. “At Gene’s work, everyone is so status-oriented. I have to match. It’s important for his career.” And Gene nodded, looking at me gratefully. And I gave it.

Then I just started buying stronger glasses. My opinion in the house carried no weight. If I said the soup was oversalted, Zoe pursed her lips and said,

“Mom, it’s age-related, your taste buds aren’t the same anymore.” If I tried to give my son advice based on my life experience, he gently interrupted. “Mom, things are different now. We’ll figure it out ourselves.”

They figured it out. And I, I was a function.

Cook, cleaner, interest-free ATM. An invisible person whose presence was convenient but not essential. Sometimes in the evenings, sitting in my armchair, I looked at my husband’s photo and asked him, “Paul, did we raise our son right? He’s good, it’s just life now.”

My husband was silent from the photo, and I convinced myself that I was doing everything right. After all, a mother should sacrifice for her child. Isn’t that so? And so my 63rd birthday approached.

By habit, I expected nothing. Maybe a bouquet of asters, which I loved, or a box of my favorite Inspiration chocolate. In the morning, Zoe was surprisingly affectionate.

She even hugged me and chirped, “Mommy, happy birthday. Gene and I prepared such a gift for you, you’ll gasp!” I must admit, I melted. Inside, something warm stirred, a forgotten feeling of childish anticipation of a miracle.

Gene was unusually fidgety too. He kept glancing at his watch. “Get ready, Mom,” he said.

“We’re going for the gift.” I put on my best dress, the only unworn one, cotton with small cornflowers. I looked at myself in the mirror—an elderly woman with tired but somehow happy eyes at that moment.

We got in the car. Zoe stayed home, citing a headache. “You go without me,” she said, waving.

“Tell me later.” We drove a long time. City streets gave way to suburban highways.

Then stretched dull fields, woodlots. At first, I tried to ask Gene where we were going, but he answered curtly, “Don’t look at me, surprise, Mom. You’ll see.”

And I fell silent, looking out the window. My soul grew more anxious. This road led neither to a resort nor a rest home nor any place to celebrate a birthday.

It led into the wilderness. Finally, we turned onto a bumpy dirt road. The car shook so that my teeth chattered.

Around were only abandoned fields overgrown with weeds and leaning power poles. And ahead appeared a village. Or rather, what was left of it.

Several houses sunk into the ground, blackened with time. None looked alive. Gene braked at the ugliest structure.

It wasn’t even a house, more a shed with a sagging roof and windows boarded up with planks. Around—nettles as tall as a person and a rotten fence. “We’re here,” he said dully, turning off the engine.

I was silent. I didn’t understand. This simply couldn’t be.

Some mistake, a cruel joke. Gene got out of the car, opened the trunk, and took out my old bag, the one I used for the cottage 20 years ago. In it were spare underwear, a robe, and soap.

He set the bag on the ground next to burdock clumps. “Here, Mom,” he swept his hand over the ruin. “This is your gift.

Zoe and I bought you a house. Your own. In fresh air.

You’ll live here. It’s good for you.” The words fell into deafening silence like stones into a deep well.

I looked at him, at my son, and didn’t recognize him. Face alien, eyes empty, glassy. In them no anger, no pity.

Nothing. Only fatigue and irritation. “Gene,” I whispered, and my voice failed me.

“What is this? Why?” “Mom, don’t start,” he winced. “We decided it’s better for everyone. You need to rest from city hustle, and we need our space.”

Zoe’s pregnant. The last words he threw like a trump card. Like justification for everything.

He didn’t even look at me. He was in a hurry. He got in the car, slammed the door.

I stood on the road, looking at him through the windshield. He started the engine. And at that moment, when the roar tore the dead silence of the village, something happened in me.

It wasn’t rage. Not offense. Not despair.

It was something else. As if inside, deep in my chest where all these years lived only warm, all-forgiving love, something clicked. Loud, clear, like turning a metal key in a rusted lock…