For almost three years, I lived abroad with my daughter. My son and his family stayed in Ukraine, and he looked after my apartment while I was away.
One day, my son-in-law simply said, “We’ve discussed everything with your daughter. The danger has passed, and Zaporizhzhia is calm now. We think it’s time for you to return home.”
It was a complete surprise to me, but at that moment, I had no idea that another unexpected turn awaited me back home with my son.
My daughter Anya has lived abroad since 2008. She met the love of her life there. They got married, built a strong family, and in 2022, Anya unexpectedly suggested that I move in with them.
“Mom, it will be better for you here,” she insisted over the phone. “And the grandchildren will be happy to see you every day.”
I hesitated for a long time, but in the end, I agreed. While staying with my daughter, I took care of the grandchildren, cooked for the family, and kept the house in order.
Anya and her husband left early in the morning and returned only in the evening. But one day, everything changed.
Filipp, always polite but reserved, suddenly announced during dinner, “We’ve discussed everything with Anya. The danger is over, and Zaporizhzhia is safe now. We think it’s time for you to return home.”
I didn’t have the strength to argue. I bought a ticket and returned to Ukraine.
But at home, another surprise was waiting for me.
When I entered my one-room apartment, I found my son there.
“Andrey?” I asked in confusion.
It turned out that he had divorced his wife, left her their apartment, and moved into mine. But what shocked me the most was that another woman was there—Irina. Andrey’s wife. Or rather, his fiancée. Or rather, the future mother of his child.
“Son, couldn’t you at least have discussed this with me first?” I asked, frustrated.
“Mom, you weren’t here.”
“But there are phones.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“And how am I supposed to feel about a stranger running my household?”
Andrey frowned. “She’s not a stranger, Mom. She’s my family. We have nowhere else to go.”
I sat down on the couch, trying to process everything. Living together in a small apartment? And when the baby is born, where will we all fit?
I called Anya, hoping she would invite me back to France. But her voice was cold.
“Mom, I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. You’ve already left. We’re used to living alone.”
And so, I found myself trapped. During the day, I wander around the city, and at night, I sleep on a folding bed in the kitchen. Irina made it clear from the start that she was in charge now.
I refuse to give up and am trying to find at least some kind of work, but my age is working against me.
Recently, an idea crossed my mind—Irina has parents in a village. Maybe she and Andrey could stay there for a while.
“Are you serious?” my son said, offended. “How am I supposed to get to work? There are no proper living conditions there.”
“And you think it’s fine that I feel like a guest in my own home?”
He was upset. But it was the truth.
Every day, I ask myself—how much longer can I endure this? How do I find a way out?