When my husband passed away so early, his daughter was only five years old. From that day on, all the care for her fell to me. I treated her as my own: I fed her, took care of her when she was sick, helped her with her studies, and sat by her bedside at night. Later, I supported her when she applied to college, helping with both words and deeds. Now, my stepdaughter is thirty. She has been by my side all these years, but lately, I noticed changes—she became distant and cold. I worried: what if she was tired of spending her energy taking care of me, what if I had become a burden to her?
One evening, she returned home and said: “Pack your things. Only take what’s necessary for now.”
I didn’t understand what was happening: “Where are we going?” I asked. She remained silent. We packed a suitcase, and all the way there, I cried quietly, thinking she was taking me to a nursing home. There was a lump in my throat—had my years of love and support been forgotten?
But the car stopped in front of a large, two-story house. I wiped my tears and got out. Before me was a neat garden, a white facade, spacious windows, and a well-kept yard.
My daughter looked at me and said quietly: “Mom… this is our home now. You always dreamed of a house like this. I saved money for a long time to make your dream come true. Forgive me for being cold—I was keeping everything a secret for the surprise. Thank you for everything you have done for me.” I stood stunned, unable to believe it was real. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but no longer from pain—these were tears of joy. I understood: her love hadn’t disappeared; it had simply found its own special expression.
