Thirteen years ago, my son Daniel left me—no goodbye, just a note: “Don’t try to find me. I’m not coming back.” I was already drowning in debt, working two jobs, and managing a chronic illness after my husband Robert died. Alone, I had no choice but to keep going.

I worked endlessly, attended treatments, and kept Daniel’s room untouched, hoping he’d return. Holidays came and went. Silence. Then, last night, there was a knock. It was Daniel—now 31—standing on my porch with two suitcases and a sheepish smile. “Mom, I want to come home.”

He dropped to his knees, apologizing and explaining he’d fallen into drugs and gambling. He said he left to protect me. I let him in, cautiously hopeful. That night, we shared dinner. But at 2 a.m., I woke to find him rifling through my closet—stealing my savings.

“Get out,” I whispered, cold and certain. He left without a word. As the door slammed, I cried—but felt peace. I’d survived without him once, I could do it again. At dawn, I called Dr. Chen. “I’m ready for that support group,” I said. “And maybe… a therapist too.”