For months I had sensed that my mother had transformed dramatically.
Although already 60, she cared for herself more than ever: stylish clothes, a bit of makeup, always appearing polished. Yet the oddest part was that every night at exactly 10, she would step out carrying a purse, claiming she was going to “do some late exercise to stay fit.”
I was no child to accept that excuse.
Moreover, I spotted her withdrawing large sums—several million—from her bank account every week. My doubts grew stronger: “Could she be seeing someone in secret?”
One evening, I decided I needed to follow her.
At 10 sharp, she stepped out again, dressed neatly, walking with purpose. My chest tightened as I trailed behind her. At last, I watched her stop before a small hotel tucked in a deserted alley.
I froze in disbelief, gripping my phone with trembling hands.
I couldn’t restrain myself. I crept upstairs after her and pushed open the door to the room.
The door swung wide… and I stood still.
Instead of the “romantic” scene I had feared, there was my mother crouching in the center, holding medicine and cartons of milk, and before her, a frail old man curled up on a shabby bed.
I was speechless, and my mother spun around, her face pale at being caught:
“Son… why are you here?”
It turned out the person she secretly visited each night wasn’t a lover, but… my grandfather—her own father, with whom she had once sworn to cut all ties because he had abandoned his wife and children to run away with another woman.
Now, aged and ill, cast out by the children of his second family, he stayed in a cheap hotel, barely surviving. When my mother discovered this, she concealed it from us and quietly brought him food and money to keep him alive.
I froze. Every suspicion, shame, and resentment turned into guilt.
My mother covered her face and sobbed.
“I know you’ll never forgive your grandfather. But still… he is my father. I can’t let him suffer alone.”
I stood rooted to the floor, unable to move. For days I had believed she was hiding something disgraceful. Yet here was the truth: harsh, sorrowful, but deeply humane.
My grandfather—the man I had only heard dark tales about, the one who deserted his family—now lay frail and weak, eyes clouded, gazing at my mother with regret and helplessness.
She remained on her knees beside his bed, voice quivering as she offered him milk:
“Father, drink this, or your stomach will hurt with the medicine…”
A lump rose in my throat. I walked over, resting my hand on her shoulder:
“Mom… forgive me. I doubted you… I knew nothing.”
She lifted her face, tears mixed with years of silent pain. She squeezed my hand gently and whispered:
“I don’t blame you, son. I just feared you’d see me as weak. But remember… you may hate your husband, yet how can you abandon your father forever?”
My grandfather stretched out a trembling hand toward me, murmuring hoarsely,
“I never expected forgiveness. Just having a daughter like your mother… that’s already heaven’s mercy.”
In that moment, my heart loosened. Anger and suspicion dissolved, replaced by sorrow, but also by understanding.
That night I escorted my mother home. The cold wind swept through the empty street. As we walked, she murmured,
“I only wish he can live a bit longer… so I might care for him and repay a little.”
I stayed silent, watching her back. That sixty-year-old woman still bore the heavy weight of filial piety with all her strength.
When we returned, I couldn’t sleep. I realized that from now on, instead of judging, I must walk alongside her. If she could forgive the father who had hurt her so deeply, then I, too, could learn to open my heart.
The following day I went back to the hotel with bags of food. When my grandfather saw me, his eyes brimmed with tears. I bowed my head and whispered softly,
“I came to help Mom.”
And that was the first moment I felt truly grown, realizing that though some wounds can never vanish, they can be soothed through love and forgiveness.
