My son invited me to dinner at a restaurant to celebrate my 60th birthday. I went there happy, dreaming of this evening. When dessert was served, he took out an envelope, placed it on the table in front of me, and uttered a phrase that instantly wiped the smile off my face: “Mom, I’m very sorry, but you need to read this…”

My son is thirty-five years old. He is my only child. I raised him alone after divorcing his father. His father was absent since my son was five. I worked two jobs. I gave him everything. Clothes, education, extracurricular activities. He got into a good university, earned his degree, and got a job. He got married three years ago and lives separately with his wife.

This past year, we’ve seen each other rarely. Once a month, he would stop by for half an hour. He said work and other matters left him with no time. I understood. A young family has its own worries.

A week before my sixtieth birthday, he called. He said he wanted to invite me to dinner at a restaurant. I was thrilled. I had long dreamed of spending an evening with him normally — to talk, to find out how he is doing.

I spent the whole week preparing for the meeting. I bought a new dress. Went to the salon, got a hairstyle and a manicure. I wanted to look nice. After all, it was my birthday, and my son was 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 hugged me. We sat down. The waiter brought the menu. We ordered food.

The conversation was strained. I asked about work, his wife, their plans. He answered briefly, often looking at his phone. I tried not to pay attention, telling him about my affairs, the neighbors, the renovation in my apartment.

The main course was brought out. We ate in silence. I felt something was wrong. He seemed tense, thoughtful. A couple of times, he started to say something but went quiet.

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

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. He placed it on the table in front of me and said he was sorry, but I needed to read it. That he didn’t know how to put it any other way.

I picked up the envelope. Opened it. Inside was a document. Several pages. I read the first line. A will. My will, which I had drawn up five years ago.

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

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 have. It stated that the apartment would transfer to him after my death.

I finished reading and looked at my son. I asked why he brought it. He said we needed to talk about it.

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

He then explained that my apartment was worth a decent amount. That if I transferred it to him now, he could take out a loan using it as collateral to get money for a new apartment. And I could continue to live in this apartment as long as I’m alive. It would just be officially in his name.

I sat there listening. He continued, saying it was beneficial for everyone. That the apartment would end up with him anyway someday. Why not do it now when he needs money? That I wouldn’t lose anything, I’d continue living there.

I asked what would happen if he had issues with the loan. He answered that there wouldn’t be any problems. That he had calculated everything. That the bank approved the application. It just needed the apartment paperwork to be updated.

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

I placed the document back in the envelope. I said I needed to think about it. He nodded, saying he understood it was a serious decision but requested not to delay. The apartment they had their eyes on could be taken by other buyers.

The dinner ended quickly. He paid the bill. He escorted me to the taxi. Kissed me on the cheek. Asked me to call when I made a decision.

A week passed. He calls every day. Asks if I’ve decided. Says the apartment might go. That he needs an answer urgently. I sit in my one-bedroom apartment. The very one I bought thirty years ago. Worked two jobs to pay off the mortgage. Raised my son here. Put my whole life into it. And he wants to use it as collateral. Promises that I won’t lose anything. But I’ve already lost. Lost the illusion that my son invited me to dinner simply because he loves me.

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

****

My son invited me to dinner at a restaurant to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. I spent a whole week getting ready, bought a new dress and had my hair done. I arrived dressed up and happy, really hoping to spend time with him and talk heart to heart. When dessert was served, he took out a white envelope, placed it on the table in front of me and said, “Mom, I’m really sorry, but you need to read this…”
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