I took care of my son’s grandchildren for 8 years, not caring about the house in the countryside. One day, I picked him up from school early and accidentally heard the “conspiracy” conversation between the couple. I packed my clothes and left for the countryside, and then 3 days later…
I am Mrs. Savita, mother of Rahul, the eldest son in the family.

Since my daughter-in-law – Priya – gave birth to our first child, I left the village in Jaipur to go to Mumbai to help them take care of the grandchildren, cook, clean, without a penny, without a word of complaint.

Everyone outside said I was lucky:

“Mrs. Savita is so lucky, she gets to live with her son in a big house in the middle of the big city.”

But no one understood – for 8 years, I never dared to buy a new sari. Every Diwali or Holi, I just stayed home to take care of the grandchildren so that the couple could go on vacation together.

My house in Jaipur is now deserted, the garden is overgrown with weeds. Neighbors even whispered:

“She lives for her family, not for herself.”

One afternoon, it was drizzling in Mumbai, I picked up my grandchild early. On the way, I passed a coffee shop near the apartment complex and heard the familiar voice of Priya – daughter-in-law…– “It’s convenient to keep mom here, she has a small government pension, no assets. We can save money on hiring a maid.”
– Rahul chuckled: “Yeah, it’s fine if she goes back to her hometown. If you need me, just let her come back for a few days.”
– “That’s even better, it’s less of a hassle. Mom is old, leaving her here will only waste electricity and water.”

I was speechless. The rain was still falling, my sari was soaked, and my heart felt cold as if someone was squeezing it.

It turned out that to them, I was just a free maid.

That night, I didn’t cry, nor did I ask a word.

Just quietly folded the clothes, put them in cloth bags, leaving a few sets for my grandson.

Early the next morning, I took the bus back to Jaipur.

Three days later.

The phone kept ringing. I didn’t answer.
Text messages from Rahul:

“Mom, don’t be angry with me. I didn’t know about that, I’m sorry…”

Text messages from my grandson:

“Grandma, I miss you. I didn’t see you when I got home from school, I was crying.”

That afternoon, I was weeding in the yard when a familiar car stopped in front of the gate.
Rahul rushed down, ran to hug me, and cried like a child:

– “Mom, I’m sorry! I found the recording on my son’s phone… I heard it all. There’s no mom at home, the baby is sick, no one knows how to take care of him. I just realized how important you are…”

I gently removed my son’s hand, looked straight at him:
– “It’s too late to understand now, Rahul. Mom won’t go to Mumbai anymore. Mom is here, living the rest of her life for herself. That house is yours, and Mom — just a temporary resident.”

Rahul was silent, bowed his head, unable to say a word.

A week later, Priya personally came to the village to find me.

She brought a stack of photocopies of the land title, tremblingly placing them on the altar:

– “Mom… my father-in-law – Mr. Rajesh – secretly transferred the garden plot in Jaipur to you three years ago. He said: ‘Whoever takes care of me when I’m old, I’ll leave it to you.’
I… I just understood, but it was too late…”

I sat silently, looking at the trembling paper in my hand, tears falling and wetting the folds of my old sari.
It turns out that in this world, only when people die, do they know who truly stays behind.