I was preparing for my sixtieth birthday as if it were a celebration, but my son turned it into a day I will never forget…

My son is thirty-five years old. He is my only child. I raised him on my own after divorcing his father. His father was not around since my son was five years old. I worked two jobs, giving him everything—clothes, education, extracurricular activities. He got into a good university, received his education, and found a job. He got married three years ago and now lives separately with his wife.

Over the past year, we rarely saw each other. Once a month, he would drop by for about half an hour. He would say he was busy with work, had things to do, and had no time. I understood. A young family has its own concerns.

A week before my sixtieth birthday, he called. He said he wanted to invite me to dinner at a restaurant. I was delighted. I had long dreamed of spending a normal evening with him, talking and finding out how he was doing.

I spent a whole week preparing for the meeting. I bought a new dress, went to the salon, did my hair and nails. I wanted to look good. After all, it’s my birthday, and my son is inviting me to a restaurant.

I arrived at the restaurant at the appointed time. He was already sitting at the table. He stood up, congratulated me, and gave me a hug. We sat down. The waiter brought the menu. We ordered food.

The conversation was tense. I asked about work, his wife, and his plans. He answered briefly and often looked at his phone. I tried not to pay attention. I talked about my life, my neighbors, and the renovations in my apartment.

The main course was served. We ate in silence. I felt that something was wrong. He seemed tense and thoughtful. Several times he started to say something but then stopped.

When dessert arrived, he put down his fork. He looked at me seriously and said there was an important conversation we needed to have. I felt apprehensive.

He took a white envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table in front of me. He said he was very sorry, but I needed to read it, and he didn’t know how else to tell me.

I took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a document—several pages. I read the first line. It was a will. My will. The one I had drafted five years ago.

I didn’t understand why he was showing it to me. I looked at him questioningly. He asked me to read further.

I read on. In the will, I left him my apartment. My one-bedroom apartment, where I had lived for thirty years. The only thing I owned. It was stated that the apartment would go to him after my death.

I read until the end and looked at my son. I asked why he had brought it. He replied that we needed to talk about it.

He said he and his wife wanted to buy a larger apartment. That they were currently cramped in a one-bedroom rental. That they would have children soon and needed more space. That they didn’t have enough money for a down payment.

He went on to explain. That my apartment was worth a decent amount. If I transferred it to him now, he could take out a loan using it as collateral, getting the money for a new apartment. And I could continue living in it for as long as I live. It would just be in his name.

I sat there listening. He continued. He said it was beneficial for everyone. That the apartment would end up his eventually anyway. So why not do it now when he needs the money? That I wouldn’t lose anything; I would continue living there.

I asked what would happen if he had issues with the loan. He said there would be no problems. He had calculated everything. The bank had approved the application. We just needed to transfer the apartment.

I asked what would happen if he wanted to sell the apartment. He said he wouldn’t want to. That it was my apartment, and I lived there. That he would only use it as collateral.

I placed the document back in the envelope and said I needed to think about it. He nodded. He said he understood that it was a serious decision but asked not to delay. The apartment they had their eye on could get snatched up by other buyers.

The dinner ended quickly. He paid the bill. He escorted me to a taxi and kissed me on the cheek. He asked me to call when I had made a decision.

A week has passed. He calls every day, asking if I’ve decided. He says the apartment could go to someone else. That he needs an urgent answer. I sit in my one-bedroom apartment. The same one I bought thirty years ago. I worked two jobs to pay off the mortgage. I raised my son here. I invested my whole life into it. And now he wants to use it as collateral. He promises I won’t lose anything. But I’ve already lost. I’ve lost the illusion that my son invited me to dinner just because he loves me.

Tell me, am I selfish if I refuse? Or is my son wrong to ask his mother for her only home? And can I trust the promise that nothing will happen when, for him, it’s just an asset, but for me, it’s my entire life?

*****

My son invited me to dinner at a restaurant for my 60th birthday. I arrived dressed up and happy, dreaming about that evening. When dessert was served, he took out an envelope, placed it on the table in front of me, and said a sentence that made my smile disappear instantly:
“Mom, I’m very sorry, but you need to read this…”
My hands started to tremble. I took the envelope, opened it slowly, and in that very moment I realized the celebration was over. I looked up at my son and did something I never expected from myself…
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