“The house is in my name,” I said. “And now it’s in writing that no one can move a single document without my permission. As long as you respect me, this will remain your home. If not… the door is right there.”
Some lowered their heads. Others frowned. But no one said a word.
The Plan to Send Me to a Nursing Home
A few days later, my youngest son sat across from me.
He spoke slowly, like someone carrying a poisoned message.
“Dad… we were talking. We think it would be best if you went somewhere where you’d be taken care of. A nursing home.”
I stared at him, unblinking.
“A nursing home?”
He said it was “for my own good.” But I already understood: they didn’t want to take care of me, they wanted the house.
I didn’t argue. I just nodded.
Sometimes you figure things out without having to shout.
The Attempt to Break the Lock
To make things clear, I put a strong lock on the gate.
One morning I found my youngest son trying to break it with a tool.
“What are you doing?” I asked calmly.
“Nothing, Dad… just checking.”
I didn’t let him continue.
“If anyone in this house doesn’t respect my rules, they’re out. And if they try to force their way in again, I’ll call the police.”
That same afternoon, I called the lawyer.
I asked for an official document. The next day, two officers left the notice on my door: the property could not be entered by anyone but me.
Now it wasn’t a family argument. It was the law.
The Final Betrayal
