I raised him alone. From the moment he was born, he became my whole world. I lived only for him. I never bought things for myself, never rested, and barely remember what it felt like to truly sleep peacefully—everything I did was for him.

I worked nonstop—at the post office, cleaning houses, washing dishes in a café. Whenever people asked why I pushed myself so hard, I always said, “I want my son to have the life I never did.”

I truly believed that when I got older, he would be there for me. That he would never leave or betray me. He used to promise, “Mom, when I grow up, I’ll buy you a house and a car!” And I believed him—because he was my son.

But everything changed when a woman came into his life. From the very beginning, I felt something wasn’t right.

She treated me coldly, never calling me by name—no “ma’am,” no “mom,” just “you.”

Soon, she began convincing him that I was a burden. She mocked him for helping me and said things like:

“Why are you giving your mother money? If she wants to eat, she can work.”

“Stop dragging her around—you have your own family now.”

She slowly turned him against me, discouraging him from visiting and telling others I was manipulating him—even though I only called occasionally to check on him.

Once, I brought him a homemade pie. She threw it out, saying:

“At least tell her to wash her hands before bringing food from who knows where.”

Little by little, he changed. He grew distant. I felt like I was losing him.

Then one morning, he said:

“Mom, I want to take you somewhere. You can stay there for a while… rest.”

There was no warmth in his voice. I sensed something was wrong—but I went anyway. Because he was still my son.

We drove for hours, farther and farther from the city. Finally, he stopped on a deserted road—no houses, no people, just emptiness.

“Get out,” he said.

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