On my seventy-sixth birthday, my son Callum handed me a three-dollar ticket with the price sticker still attached. He laughed and said it was all he could afford after paying rent and supporting his family. I smiled, thanked him, and said nothing. For five years, I had quietly helped keep his household afloat, while Callum treated me like an inconvenience that needed managing. He had even moved me into a smaller room, insisting the family needed more space.<\/p>\n
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That evening, I returned to the house with a folder I had kept hidden for months. Callum was complaining about his landlord again when I placed an envelope beside his plate. Inside was a notice giving him sixty days to leave. He read the first page twice, then froze when he reached the second. His eyes moved across the initials, and suddenly he remembered where he had seen them before. The landlord he had complained about for months was not a stranger.<\/p>\n
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