My name is Linda. In the last few years, my son Evan has drifted away, choosing to return to the woman who hurt him most. Watching him repeat the same mistake—and losing our connection in the process—has shattered me, leaving me to question what a mother is supposed to do when love and wisdom aren’t enough.
After overhearing my son Gabriel plotting to send me to a nursing home and demanding I transfer the house to him, my world shattered. What follows is a raw account of generational conflict, broken trust, and the heartbreak of watching your own child become a stranger. Through pain and unanswered questions, I search for meaning and connection in the ruins of our family.
Throughout our time together, Michael has only bought bread twice and tea once, and that too only because I asked him. My name is Naomi.
