Instead of helping, they treated my dad’s home like their own. They raided his pantry, blasted the TV, and made cruel remarks. “Why does he need a whole house?” “A care facility would be better.” They weren’t subtle. They hinted that my dad should move out and give the place to us. My dad didn’t argue—he just smiled and nodded, quietly taking it all in.
Then, three days before we returned, he surprised them. Calmly, he said, “You’re right. Maybe it’s time I moved out. Could you help me pack?” Thrilled, they boxed up his clothes, books, and keepsakes, certain they’d soon claim the house. They even packed their own belongings, imagining new curtains for “their” future bedroom. They had no idea what was coming.
