I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
I Gave My House to My Son — He Betrayed Me in a Horrific Way
Betrayal is among the most devastating feelings, but it takes on an even more horrible dimension if it comes from a close family member.
That’s the case of Josie, who felt utterly crushed when her son lied to her.
The devoted mother made a decision to give her house to her son and his young wife so they could comfortably start a family, but things took a turn that Josie wouldn’t have expected in a million years. She sent a letter to us to share her story and ask for advice.
Here’s her story
I live alone in a 3-bedroom house. My recently married son kept saying that it was the perfect home to start a family, so I ended up giving it to them while I went to live with my widowed sister.
Yesterday, my son told me that his mother-in-law is moving in with them. I said, “I didn’t leave my home to have her live with you.”
My daughter-in-law declared, “We lied about starting a family right away. We are not ready yet; we’re too young.” She added, “But my mom is alone. We have a big house now, so she will come live with us.”
I was furious and said that I didn’t agree to this arrangement. I reminded her that it is still technically my house.
My son then stated, “My MIL is much more in need of us than you are. She’s my family too now and I have to take care of her.”
I feel betrayed and heartbroken. What should I do?
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