October was surprisingly cool in Phoenix City. I sat at the window of my small apartment, watching the wind whip fallen leaves across the sidewalk. Seventy-six isn’t that old when you think about it. Many women my age are traveling, gardening, or babysitting grandchildren. But my life has turned out differently.

The arthritis in my fingers throbbed slightly as I flipped through the pages of a higher math textbook, a new edition I bought last week after spending part of my pension. Some habits don’t change even when you’ve been out of teaching for ten years. Math has always been my salvation—pure logic, where every problem has a solution, unlike life.

For thirty-five years, I taught Phoenix City kids how to solve equations and find the values of unknowns. Some students still kept in touch with me. Yesterday, Carol Dutton—now a manager at a local bank and once a shy girl from the second desk who was afraid of fractions—called. She promised to drop by next week, bring some home baking. I always enjoyed those visits. They reminded me that my life wasn’t in vain.

My gaze slid to the picture on the wall. My only son, Neils, and his wife, Talia, a three-year-old snapshot from their wedding. Neils took after me—the same deep-set dark eyes, the same stubborn chin. Talia was his exact opposite, blonde, round-faced, with a perpetually disgruntled expression.

The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.

“Mom, it’s me.” Neils’s voice sounded unusually excited. “Talia and I are coming over tonight.”

“Okay. Around six?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. Usually, my son called once every two weeks and visited once a month, and that was on my initiative.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. No. We just want to visit you. Don’t cook anything. We’ll bring dinner.” He disconnected before I could ask him anything.

That’s strange. Neils and Talia never spoiled me with spontaneous visits. They usually showed up when they needed something—money for a new TV, help with tax returns, or my signature on some paperwork. I sighed and put the book down. I needed to clean myself up before they arrived.

I’d never been a beauty, but I’d always taken care of myself. I cut my gray hair, once dark brown, into a short bob. It was easier to maintain. I didn’t try to hide my wrinkles; they were honestly earned through years of laughter, worry, and reflection. My eyes, as my students used to say, still had a spark of curiosity and insight. I put on a light blue blouse and navy-blue pants—my favorite going-out outfit—and put on some lipstick and blush. Not for Neils and Talia’s sake—for my own. A woman should respect herself, even if others don’t.

The doorbell rang at six sharp. Precision is another trait Neils inherited from me. “Mom.” He hugged me and I smelled expensive cologne. A new one, not the one he’d used before. “You look beautiful.”

Talia stood behind him with a strange smile, holding a bag from the Chinese restaurant. “Hello, Ruth.” She never called me Mom or Mother-in-law. Always only by my first name, like we were just acquaintances.

“Come in.” I stepped aside to let them into the apartment.

Neils looked around with a new expression, almost condescending. “Mom, you still haven’t replaced that old furniture, have you? We told you we’d help you choose something modern.”

“I like my furniture,” I replied calmly. “It’s comfortable and knows all my habits.”

Talia snorted, setting the containers of food on the table.

“It smells good,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

We sat down to dinner, and I couldn’t help but notice the new watch on Neils’s wrist—obviously expensive, with a metal bracelet and a blue dial. Talia was wearing a pendant necklace that I hadn’t seen before either. Strange for a couple who’d complained about financial difficulties only two months ago and asked me for a loan of $300 to fix their car.

“How are things going at work?” I asked Neils, putting some rice and chicken on my plate.

“Great,” he glowed. “You know, the bank really appreciates me. They’ve recently raised the loan limit, so I can approve up to $500,000 on my own.”

“That’s great.” I smiled. Neils had been a loan officer at Phoenix Financial for five years. Not a bad job, though not the career I dreamed of for my son when I’d paid for his college education. “What about you, Talia? Still at the supermarket?”

She pressed her lips together. “Yeah, but I’m thinking about quitting. Maybe soon I’ll be able to afford not to work for a while.”

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Neils’s phone rang and he quickly stepped out into the hallway to answer it. I wasn’t eavesdropping intentionally, but my son’s voice echoed through the small apartment.

“Yes, the paperwork is ready. Yeah, everything’s fine. Name? Ruth Hollinger? No, there’s no problem. I told you.”

I froze with my fork in the air. My name? What ID?

Talia, noticing my confusion, quickly started talking about the new show they were watching—too loudly and unnaturally.

Neils returned, blushing slightly. “Sorry, work.” He smiled and quickly changed the subject. “Mom, do you know we’re planning a big life change?”

“What kind of changes?” I put my fork away, suddenly losing my appetite.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he winked at Talia. “It’s a surprise, but I can tell you that we might need your help. Just technically.”

“What kind of help?” I tensed.

“Nothing fancy, just a signature on a couple of papers. We’ll explain everything when the time comes.” Neils waved his hand as if it were nothing.

The rest of the evening passed in a strange tension. Neils and Talia exchanged meaningful glances, spoke in innuendo, and when I tried to find out more, they turned the conversation to other topics. I kept getting the feeling that something was wrong.

Before he left, Neils took an envelope out of his pocket. “I almost forgot. Remember you asked me to pay for your insurance? Here’s the receipt. It’s done.”

I didn’t ask him to pay my insurance. I always did it myself, neatly and on time, but I took the envelope, not wanting to make a scene. “Thank you, Neils. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

When the door closed behind them, I breathed a sigh of relief. Visits from my son and daughter-in-law always drained me emotionally. Lately, I’d often found myself waiting for them to leave, not for them to come. I opened the envelope and pulled out the receipt—and I froze. It wasn’t an insurance document, but a receipt for a down payment on real estate. The amount was an impressive $50,000. My name was in the payer column, though I knew for a fact that I’d never made such a transaction.

A chill ran down my spine. Something was definitely wrong.

I sat down at my desk and began to scrutinize the document. Could it be a mistake? But my name, address, and even my Social Security number were listed correctly. It was as if I had actually paid that money.

Neils’s phone conversation, his expensive new watch, the hints of big changes and “formal help,” all added up to a disturbing picture. I remembered that a few months ago, he had asked me to sign some papers to update my bank information. I signed without looking. I trusted my son—maybe for nothing.

I took a magnifying glass out of my desk drawer—my old eyes were no longer the same—and scrutinized the receipt again. The fine print at the bottom showed the developer, Sunrise Homes, and an address in an upscale Phoenix City neighborhood. I jotted those details down in my notebook.

Sleep wasn’t coming. I tossed and turned, going over possible explanations in my head. Maybe Neils really wanted to surprise me, buy a new house for me, but then why all the secrecy, the whispered conversations, and the strange looks?

In the morning, I decided I needed to find out more. Neils had always been adventurous ever since he was a kid. I remember when he was twelve, he took my credit card without asking to buy expensive sneakers. I forgave him then after a long conversation about trust and honesty. Apparently, the lesson didn’t stick.

After breakfast, I called my longtime friend, Mabel, whom we taught high school together. “Mabel, do you know a good lawyer?” I asked without preamble.

“A lawyer?” She was surprised. “What’s wrong, Ruth?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I might need some financial advice.”

“My nephew has a law firm. He specializes in this sort of thing. Can I give you his number?”

I wrote down my contacts, thanked Mabel, and asked her not to tell anyone about our conversation. Then I pulled out my bank statements for the last three months and began to scrutinize them. There was nothing suspicious at first glance—the usual spending on groceries, utilities, and medications. Maybe I’m being overly cynical. Maybe Neils had really paid for something I’d forgotten to ask for. With age, memory sometimes fails.

But no. I would never forget about $50,000. And I certainly wouldn’t ask my son for that amount of money.

At two in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. There was a delivery man with a large bouquet of flowers.

“Ruth Hollinger,” he said.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Sign here, please.”

I signed and took the bouquet of gorgeous roses and lilies. There was a card attached to the bouquet.

“Dear Mom, thank you for everything. We will have a surprise for you soon. Love, Neils and Talia.”

I placed the flowers in the vase, but they brought me no joy. Something about the gesture felt fake, as if my son was trying to placate me before something unpleasant. Neils had never before sent me flowers for no reason.

In the evening, I decided to call my son. “Thank you for the flowers, Neils. They’re beautiful.”

“You’re welcome, Mom. You deserve the best,” he said with a fake cheerfulness in his voice.

“Neils, I wanted to ask you about the receipt you left yesterday. It’s not an insurance document.”

Pause.

“Oh, that receipt.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. I must have mixed up the envelopes. This is work. Throw it away, please.”

“But it’s got my name on it, Neils. And $50,000.”

“Mom, it’s just a mistake. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it, okay?” His tone became nervous. “Look, I gotta run. Talia and I have plans tonight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

He hung up before I could object.

Now, I was sure something was definitely wrong. Neils had never been a good liar. Even as a kid, I could always tell when he wasn’t telling the truth. He started talking too fast and avoided looking me in the eye.

I walked over to the window and looked outside. Phoenix City was glowing with lights at night. People hurrying about their business, unaware of other people’s problems. How many families were now having dinner together, sharing stories of the day gone by? How many mothers can look at their children with pride, knowing they raised them to be honest people?

When Arthur, my husband, died of a heart attack, leaving me alone with seven-year-old Neils, I vowed that I would do everything I could to raise our son to be a good man. I worked my ass off—taking extra hours at school and part-time tutoring on weekends. Neils never wore shabby clothes. He always had everything he needed to study and even a little something extra—sports equipment, musical instruments, summer camps. Maybe that was my mistake. Was I trying so hard to compensate him for his father’s absence that I hadn’t taught him to appreciate what he had, and to earn on his own?

I remembered how disappointed I was when Neils dropped out of college after two years. “Mom, it’s not for me. I want to make money now, not in a few years,” he said. Then I relented, though I hoped he would get a degree in business or economics. Instead, he got a job at a bank. He started as a clerk and gradually worked his way up to a loan officer.

When he brought Talia to meet me four years ago, I felt that this woman would not bring him happiness—too calculating in her eyes, too often mentioning money and status. But I kept silent. Neils was an adult. He was already thirty-two, and he had the right to choose for himself. Their wedding had been modest in the backyard of Talia’s parents’ house with a minimum of guests. Then they had complained about the lack of money. Now, suddenly, there were expensive watches, jewelry, talk of firing Talia, and a $50,000 receipt with my name on it.

I pulled out my phone book and found the number of Terry Nibbllock, another former student of mine who, as far as I knew, worked at the same bank as Neils. Terry had always been a responsible and honest boy. Maybe he could shed some light on the situation. I glanced at the clock. Almost ten at night. Too late for a phone call. It would have to wait until tomorrow. I made a note in my notebook to call Terry in the morning.

As I fell asleep, I thought about how life always teaches unexpected lessons. For thirty-five years, I had taught math to children, and now I was faced with a problem I couldn’t solve with formulas and equations. But I was sure of one thing: I would find the answer, no matter how bitter the truth turned out to be.

The morning began with a phone call. I had barely had time to take my first sip of coffee when my old-fashioned spinning-dial machine rang, one of the few items I’d kept since moving into this apartment ten years ago.

“Ruth, it’s Fay Windom,” came a familiar voice. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course I remember you, Fay.” I smiled involuntarily. Third row by the window, always with a butterfly barrette.

Fay laughed. “You still remember details like that. And I thought I was just one of your hundreds of students.”

“I never had just any students,” I replied. “Each one was special.”

Fay Windom was one of those students I was really proud of—a smart, hard-working girl from a dysfunctional family. She overcame the odds and got into a good college. Now she worked at the IRS and, as far as I knew, was doing a good job.

“I’m calling to invite you to lunch,” Fay said. “I’ve been wanting to visit you for a long time and today I’ll be in your neighborhood.”

It was unexpected but nice. I said yes and we agreed to meet at a small café near my house at noon.

After hanging up the phone, I went back to thinking about the receipt Neils had left. After a restless night, I decided to proceed methodically, the way I taught my students to approach complex problems. The first step was to gather more information. I pulled out my old leather-covered notebook—a fiftieth-birthday present from colleagues—and began jotting down facts and questions.

Fact one: Neils left a $50,000 receipt with my name on it. Fact two: he clearly lied when I asked him about it. Fact three: the phone conversation mentioned my name in the context of some documents. Questions: What was this payment? Where did the money come from? Why my name?

I carefully wrote down the address on the receipt and the developer, Sunrise Homes. Perhaps I should have started there.

At eleven-thirty, I left the house. The day was clear but cool. I put on my navy-blue suit, the same one I’d once worn to parent-teacher conferences. It still fit pretty well, though it had gotten a little looser over the years.

The Morning Star Café was only two blocks from my house, a small, cozy establishment where mostly locals gathered. I arrived a little early and chose a table by the window. Fay showed up exactly at noon. Punctuality was another trait I appreciated about her. She had changed since the last time I’d seen her—shorter hair, a business suit instead of jeans, thin-rimmed glasses—but her smile was still the same, open and sincere.

“Mrs. Hollinger,” she hugged me. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve learned to lie beautifully,” I smiled back. “And please call me Ruth. You haven’t been my student for a long time.”

We ordered—a salad for me, a sandwich for Fay—and began to exchange news. She talked about her job, her recent promotion, how she was applying the math skills I’d taught her to analyze tax returns.

“And how’s your son—Neils, right?” Fay asked when the food arrived.

I hesitated to answer. Should I share my suspicions? But if not with Fay, then with whom? Besides, working at the IRS, she might have access to information that would help me understand the situation.

“Fay,” I lowered my voice. “I need your help. As a former teacher and just someone in a difficult situation.” I told her about Neils and Talia’s strange visit, about the overheard phone conversation, about the large receipt.

Fay listened attentively, not interrupting, only occasionally asking clarifying questions.

“And you think Neils could have used your name for some financial transactions without your knowledge?” she asked me when I had finished.

“I don’t want to believe it, but all the facts point that way,” I sighed. “I need to know if there were any large transactions or—heaven forbid—loans registered in my name.”

Fay frowned. “What you’re asking—it’s not exactly legal, Ruth. I can’t just look into people’s financial transactions without an official request.”

“I understand.” I touched her arm. “I’m not asking you to break the law. I’m just asking you to tell me what to do, where to go, what to ask.”

Fay thought for a moment, then pulled a notepad and pen out of her bag. “Here’s what I can suggest.” She began to write. “These are the contacts of someone I know at the credit bureau. You can request your credit history officially as an individual. That’s your right. Tell him it’s from me. He’ll speed up the process.”

I gratefully took the sheet. “Thank you, Fay.”

“One more thing,” she lowered her voice. “Off the record, I can check to see if any new properties have been registered in your name. It’s part of my job to monitor property tax liabilities.”

“That would be very helpful.”

“Give me a couple of days.” Fay squeezed my hand. “And Ruth, be careful. If your suspicions are correct, this could be a serious fraud.”

We finished lunch, exchanging promises to keep each other informed. Returning home, I felt a little better. At least now I had a plan of action.

That evening, as I was getting ready for bed, the phone rang. It was Fay, and her voice sounded worried.

“Ruth, I found something, and it’s unpleasant.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the phone. “Go ahead, Fay.”

“There’s a mortgage loan in your name. $450,000. Phoenix Financial—the bank where Neils works.”

I felt the room start to spin. “When?” was all I could ask.

“Three weeks ago. And the first payment has already been made. $50,000. The one you saw the receipt for.”

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe steady. So, it’s true. My son had used my name to take out a loan. A huge loan that I could never pay back.

“Ruth, are you all right?” Fay’s voice brought me back to reality.

“Yes.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Fay. That’s… important information.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Talk to the people at the bank, for starters. Maybe there’s some kind of mistake.”

We both knew it wasn’t a mistake, but Fay didn’t argue.

“Be careful, Ruth, and keep me informed.”

I couldn’t sleep for a long time after that conversation. My thoughts revolved around the same question: How could Neils do this? How could he jeopardize my financial security, my reputation, my future?

In the morning, I decided to take action. Putting on my best suit and styling my hair more neatly than usual, I went to Phoenix Financial. It was a large modern bank downtown with a glass façade and marble floor in the lobby. I walked up to the information desk.

“Good morning. I need to speak to someone about my mortgage loan.”

The young woman behind the counter smiled. “Of course. Your name?”

“Ruth Hollinger.”

She checked something on the computer. “Uh, yes. Your loan officer is Neils Hollinger. Would you like me to get him for you?”

“Actually, I’d rather talk to someone else,” I said. “Neils is my son, and I would like some independent counseling.”

The woman looked surprised, but nodded. “I see. Then you’d better talk to Mr. Niblock. He works with mortgages, too. Just a moment, please.”

She made the call, and a few minutes later, a young man in his thirties with a friendly face came to the counter.

“Mrs. Hollinger.” He held out his hand. “Terry Nibbllock—what can I do for you?”

I looked at him carefully. There was something familiar about that face. “Terry Niblock?” I asked him again. “Didn’t you go to Phoenix City High School in the early 2000s?”

His eyes widened. “Mrs. Hollinger, you were my math teacher.” He was genuinely excited. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t recognize you at first, but I remember now.”

I smiled. “Second row, right side—always solved problems in an unconventional way.”

Terry blushed with pleasure. “You remember… this is so nice. Let’s go to my office where we can talk in peace.”

He led me across the hall to a small but cozy office and invited me to sit down.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mrs. Hollinger?”

I decided to be blunt. “Terry, I need information about a loan that was recently made in my name. A loan for $450,000.”

His face got a little tense. “Oh, that loan. Yes, I know about it. Your son—” He hesitated. “Neils was on the case.”

“The problem is, Terry, I didn’t apply for that loan. I didn’t sign any paperwork.”

There was silence. Terry was clearly uncomfortable. “Mrs. Hollinger, that’s a serious statement. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Terry, I know I’m asking you to break the rules, but I need to see the paperwork on this loan. I need to know what’s going on.”

He hesitated, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’m not supposed to do this without an official request.”

“Terry.” I leaned forward. “Remember when you failed that algebra test in tenth grade? You thought it was the end of the world. But I gave you a chance to retake it because I knew you could do better. I believed in you then. Believe in me now. It’s important.”

He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Good. Just give me a minute.”

Terry left the office and returned a few minutes later with a folder in his hands. “Here are your loan documents.” He placed the folder on the desk. “I have ten minutes before they start looking for me for a meeting. Go through them quickly.”

I opened the folder and started looking through the documents. The loan application, the credit assessment, the contract. It was all in my name. And everywhere there was a signature that looked like mine but wasn’t mine. Someone had tried very hard to imitate my handwriting, but I could tell the difference right away. The “t” was not written the way I normally write, and the signature lacked the characteristic stroke I always use to end my name.

“That’s not my signature,” I showed Terry. “Look at it carefully. I can provide any document with my real signature for comparison.”

Terry studied the signature, then nodded. “I can see the difference, and frankly, I’m not surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked around as if checking to see if anyone was eavesdropping, then lowered his voice. “Neils has been acting strange lately—bragging about spending a lot of money, talking about some lucrative business. And there were other cases, questionable transactions, documents with missing signatures that he promised to deliver later. Nothing that I could officially dispute, but… I started watching him.”

I felt the color of shame flood my face. Not only had my son deceived me, but he was probably breaking the rules at work.

“Terry, what was this loan for? What was the money used for?”

He turned a few pages in a folder. “Here,” he pointed to a document. “The purchase of a house at 26 Oak Ridge. It’s in West Heights, a new upscale neighborhood.”

I wrote down the address. “And when is the move to this house supposed to take place?”

Terry went through the paperwork again. “According to this, the keys have already been turned over to the owner. So—technically you. The house is ready for occupancy.”

I closed the folder and took a deep breath. Now, I had all the information I needed. “Thank you, Terry. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Mrs. Hollinger,” he looked worried. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answered honestly. “But first, I want to see this house and talk to my son.”

“Be careful. What Neils did is fraud. Forging documents, illegal use of personal data. These are serious charges.”

“I know.”

I stood up, getting ready to leave. “Thanks again, Terry.”

He walked me out of the bank. “Mrs. Hollinger,” he said, “I always remember you as the teacher who taught me not only math, but honesty. You used to say, numbers don’t lie and people shouldn’t. I remembered that for the rest of my life.”

I squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Terry. It’s nice to know that someone learned that lesson.”

I was up most of the night. I lay staring at the ceiling, going over in my head everything I’d learned in the last two days. Every time I thought about Neils forging my signature, about the big loan in my name, a wave of anger washed over me. By five in the morning, I had made my decision. There was no point in waiting. I had to act immediately before my shock was replaced by indecision—before maternal love took over my sense of justice.

After taking a shower and drinking a cup of strong coffee, I put on my strictest suit, a dark gray one with an impeccably ironed white blouse. This outfit always gave me confidence, even when I had to deal with the most difficult parents and school administrators. In my bag, I put a notebook, a pen, a small camera—an old model I rarely used, but it would come in handy today—and the receipt Neils had left behind. If proof of his machinations were needed, I would be ready to collect it.

It was only six-thirty in the morning when I left the house. The streets of Phoenix City were just beginning to wake up. A few early birds were scurrying to work. Bakeries were opening their doors, letting out the aroma of fresh bread. On another day, I might have stopped to buy a roll. But today, I had no appetite. I caught a cab on the corner, a luxury I rarely afforded myself. But today, every minute counted.

“Oak Ridge 26, West Heights,” I said to the driver, an older man with a gray beard.

“Wow,” he whistled. “This is a swanky neighborhood—visiting rich relatives?”

“Something like that,” I answered evasively.

I stared out the window the whole way, watching the scenery change from my humble neighborhood of apartment buildings to more and more expensive and well-maintained neighborhoods. Phoenix City had always been a city of contrasts, but in recent years, the gap between the poor and rich neighborhoods had become even more pronounced.

The cab pulled up in front of a beautiful two-story modern-style mansion. I paid the driver, leaving a generous tip, a small extravagance on a day that would change my entire life.

“Have a good day, ma’am.” The driver smiled, looking at me with slight bewilderment. I probably didn’t look like a typical guest in such a luxurious home.

“Thank you,” I replied, realizing that nicety was the last thing this day could be.

I stood in front of the house, looking at its façade. The large windows, the spacious veranda, the manicured lawn. Everything screamed money and status. Money that Neils and Talia never had. Money they were determined to get by using my name.

Outside the house was a van with a cleaning company logo on it. So, there were people inside. Maybe Neils had hired cleaners to get the house ready for the final move.

I took a deep breath and headed for the front door. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, harder. The door was slightly ajar, probably not fully closed.

“Is anyone there?” I called out, peering inside.

The sounds of a vacuum cleaner running and muffled voices came from deep inside. I decided to go in. After all, it was technically my house. The loan was in my name.

The hall was spacious with a high ceiling and marble floor. To the left was the living room with new furniture still in its protective film. To the right was the dining room with a huge dining table for at least twelve people. Who was a table like that for? Neils and Talia had almost no friends, and they rarely invited anyone over, even for a barbecue at their rented house.

I climbed the wide staircase to the second floor. The sounds of cleaning were louder. Apparently, the workers were working on the bedrooms. I picked a door at the far end of the hallway, hoping no one was there. It turned out to be an office, a small room with a desk, bookshelves—empty for now—and a leather chair. There was a new computer on the desk, and a stack of folders next to it.

I closed the door behind me and walked over to the desk. The first folder contained the deeds to the house, the purchase agreement, the deed of conveyance, the insurance policy. Everything was in my name, with a forged signature everywhere. In the second folder, I found the bank documents—the same loan agreement Terry had mentioned. $450,000 for thirty years. The monthly payment was almost $2,000, a sum well in excess of my pension.

But the most shocking thing was in the third folder. There were copies of my personal documents—passport, driver’s license, Social Security card, health insurance, even my bank statements for the last six months. How did Neils get all this stuff? Had he gone through my things while I slept or was away from home?

I felt nausea rise to my throat. This wasn’t just fraud. It was betrayal—an invasion of my privacy and exploitation of my trust.

I pulled out my camera and started taking pictures of the documents. Click, click, click. I methodically captured evidence of my son’s crime. At one point, I caught myself thinking I was acting like a detective from a TV show, but the reality was far more painful than any fictional plot.

Finished with the paperwork, I decided to look around the rest of the house. I needed to see exactly what Neils had spent such a huge amount of money on—money that I would have to pay back for the rest of my life if I didn’t find out the truth.

I cautiously peeked out into the hallway. The sounds of cleaning had moved to the first floor. The path was clear. I walked across the hall to the second bedroom—apparently a guest bedroom, judging by the more modest furnishings. Then I looked into the master bedroom and froze with surprise. The room was huge with panoramic windows overlooking the backyard. A bed the size of half my living room with a luxurious canopy and lots of pillows. A separate walk-in closet filled with new clothes. I recognized Talia’s style—she loved bright, flashy things. A marble bathroom with a jacuzzi tub and double sinks.

It was all so far removed from my humble apartment, from my simple life. I had never aspired to luxury, always believing it was more important to have honestly earned bread than undeserved cakes. Apparently, my son had internalized other values.

Suddenly, I heard the front door slam. The voices of the cleaning company hushed. They had probably finished their work and left. The house fell into silence.

I went down to the first floor and found myself alone in this huge mansion. The clock showed eleven in the morning. If Neils and Talia were working on a regular schedule, they shouldn’t show up until six in the evening. I had plenty of time to decide what to do next. I could leave with copies of the documents and go to the police. I could wait for my son and daughter-in-law to return and confront them, or I could just leave a note explaining that I knew everything and wait for their reaction.

The last option seemed the safest. But I’ve never been a coward. I’d taught my students to face difficulties head-on, and I couldn’t do otherwise now. I decided to wait for them to return.

The day dragged on for an agonizingly long time. I surveyed every corner of the house, noting all the expensive purchases: the latest appliances in the kitchen, a home theater in the basement, a gym with a sauna, even a small wine cellar with a few bottles of expensive liquor. At two in the afternoon, I felt hungry. I had only had a cup of coffee since morning. The kitchen revealed a refrigerator filled with groceries. I made myself a simple sandwich and ate it while sitting at the huge kitchen island. It was a strange feeling to eat lunch in a house that was technically yours but really wasn’t.

After lunch, I went back to the office and went through the paperwork once more, now more carefully. In the bank statements, I noticed several large transfers to Neils’s account over the past few months—bonuses from the bank for attracting large clients. He probably wasn’t just using his official position to arrange a fake loan in my name.

Time was running out. I leafed through the glossy magazines left on the coffee table in the living room. Looking out the window at the neighboring houses, where similarly wealthy people lived, I wondered how many of them had gotten their houses through honest labor and how many through deceit.

At five-thirty, I heard the sound of a car pulling up. Looking out the window, I saw Neils’s black sedan parked in the driveway. My heart beat faster. The moment of truth was approaching. I decided to meet them at the front door.

Standing in the hallway, I could hear them approaching the house, laughing and talking. The sound of a key in the lock, the turn of a knob. The door opened and Neils and Talia appeared on the doorstep, laden with supermarket bags and a box containing a bottle of champagne. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t immediately notice me.

“And then we can invite the Morgans next week,” Talia said. “They’ll die of jealousy when they see our new—”

She stopped halfway through when she saw me. Her eyes widened, her face paled. The box slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor with a loud thud. Luckily, the bottle didn’t break.

“Oh, you didn’t expect to see me,” I said—calmly, almost with a smile, though I was seething inside.

Neils froze like a statue. His face turned into a mask of horror and disbelief. “Mommy,” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I waved my hand, looking at my new house—the one that was bought on credit in my name. “Talia, why don’t you invite me in? Although technically I should invite you in. After all, the house is in my name.”

Neils finally came out of his stupor. “Mom, I can explain.” He stepped forward, closing the door behind him. “It’s—it’s not what you think, really.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I think you used your position at the bank to make a loan in my name without my knowledge. You forged my signature on documents, used copies of my personal information, and bought this house for you and Talia. Which of these is not true?”

Talia dropped the remaining packages and turned to her husband. “Neils, is this true? Did you make the loan in your mother’s name?”

Neils looked like a cornered animal. “Yeah, I was going to pay off the loan myself,” he said quickly, nervously. “Mom, I swear you wouldn’t even know about it. I just couldn’t get that much money in my own name. I don’t have enough income and a bad credit history.”

“So you decided to put your mother in harm’s way?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it was trembling. “Do you realize that if you couldn’t pay that loan, the bank would come after me? I would have lost everything—my apartment, my savings, my reputation.”

“That wouldn’t have happened,” Neils raised his voice. “I’ve thought of everything. I have a good job. I get bonuses.”

“Bonuses for what, Neils?” I interrupted. “For attracting clients or for making fictitious loans?”

He fell silent, caught in a lie.

Talia, who until that moment had been shifting her gaze from me to Neils, suddenly exploded. “You told me that your mother agreed to help us buy a house,” she shouted, pointing her finger at Neils’s chest. “You said she signed all the papers and is happy for us.”

“Talia, I can explain—”

“What else did you lie to me about?” Her eyes narrowed. “You said that you had big bonuses at work, that we could afford all this spending. Is that a lie, too?”

I watched this scene with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was pleased that the truth had finally come out. On the other hand, I felt pain that my son was capable of such deceit.

“I didn’t lie about the bonuses,” Neils defended himself. “I do get bonuses, and I was planning to pay off this loan myself.”

“Honestly? Then why didn’t you put it in your own name? Why did you have to use mine?”

“I already told you. I have a bad credit history,” he looked annoyed, like I was asking stupid questions.

“After that credit card thing in college—the one where you racked up debt and I paid it off for three years?” I shook my head. “And you decided the best way to thank me was to set me up for a new, much bigger debt?”

Neils lowered his eyes. “I was going to tell you later, when things had settled down.”

“When exactly, Neils? When I got my first loan repayment, or when the bank started proceedings to seize my apartment for debt?”

Talia, who until that moment had been angry with Neils, suddenly turned to me. “Look, Ruth,” she tried to speak calmly, though it was obvious that she was panicking. “I swear I didn’t know anything about this. Neils told me that you’d agreed to help us buy the house, that all the paperwork was in order. I would never have agreed to such a deception.”

I looked at her carefully. Maybe she was telling the truth. Or maybe she was just trying to save her own skin. “And you didn’t wonder why a retired woman suddenly agreed to take out a $450,000 loan on herself?”

Talia blushed. “He said you wanted to help us, that you had good savings,” she stammered. “I know it sounds stupid now, but I believed him.”

I sighed and pulled a folder out of my bag with the photos of the documents I’d taken this afternoon. “Here’s the evidence of fraud.” I placed the folder on the table in the hall. “Forged signatures, illegal use of my personal information, abuse of office—enough to send Neils to prison for a few years.”

Neils turned even paler. “Mom, you won’t do this.” His voice sounded both pleading and threatening. “You won’t send your only son to prison.”

“Why not?” I looked him straight in the eye. “You weren’t afraid to set your only mother up for financial ruin.”

“I was going to pay off that loan myself,” he was almost shouting. “Why can’t you understand?”

“What if you’d lost your job, or got sick, or just decided it was too burdensome to pay off the loan?” I shook my head. “Neils, you’ve always taken the easy way out, always passing the buck to others. I’d hoped it would go away as you got older, but I guess I was wrong.”

Talia suddenly burst into tears. “What’s going to happen now?” She looked at me and Neils through her tears. “Will we lose the house? Will Neils go to prison?”

I felt a prick of pity for this woman. Perhaps she really was a victim of deception like me. “It depends on what you decide to do next,” I answered, trying to sound calm and rational. “And how sincerely you repent of what you’ve done.”

The morning was overcast. Heavy gray clouds hung over Phoenix City, as if nature itself had decided to emphasize the drama of the situation. I was sitting at a huge dining room table in a house that I owned but had bought by fraud. Across from me were Neils and Talia. We were silent, staring into our coffee cups. No one wanted to start a conversation. After last night’s shocking revelation, we were emotionally drained.

Neils suggested I stay the night in the guest bedroom, and I agreed. It was a long drive to my apartment, and I needed to conserve my energy for today’s conversation. I spent the night thinking about how we’d gotten to this situation. Where had I gone wrong in raising my son? When did he become a person capable of such deception? What am I supposed to do now?

Finally, I decided to break the long silence. “We need to decide what to do next,” I said, setting the cup aside. “I have two options: to report the fraud to the police or to find another solution.”

Neils flinched when he heard the word police. He looked terrible—pale, eyes red from sleeplessness, with two-day stubble.

“Mom, please,” his voice was hoarse. “Don’t go to the police. It would ruin everything—my career, my life. I can make things right.”

“How?” I asked calmly. “The loan’s already taken out. The money’s spent. The house is bought.”

“I’ll pay it off myself, just like I planned,” Neils said quickly, feverishly. “You won’t even notice it exists. I’ll transfer the money to your account every month on time.”

“What if you lose your job or get sick or just decide it’s too burdensome?” I shook my head. “Neils, the problem isn’t just money. You committed a crime. You forged my signature, used my name without authorization. You abused your position at the bank.”

Talia, who had been silent until then, suddenly spoke. “I still can’t believe you did this.” She looked at her husband with undisguised contempt. “You deceived not only your mother but me as well. You told me that Ruth had agreed to help us, that she had signed all the papers willingly.”

“I was going to tell you the truth later,” Neils muttered, not looking at his wife.

“When exactly?” Talia’s voice grew louder and louder. “When we get arrested for fraud or when your mother ends up on the street because of your loan?”

“No one would be on the street.” Neils slammed his fist on the table. “I was in control. I have a good salary. I get bonuses.”

“What exactly do you get bonuses for, Neils?” I interrupted. “For bringing in clients or for making fictitious loans?”

He stopped talking, and I saw in his eyes what I’d feared: guilt. So, my suspicions were correct. My son didn’t just make one fake loan in my name. He did it systematically.

“How many other such operations have you done?” I asked quietly.

Neils lowered his head. “It was the first time with a loan of such a large sum,” he muttered. “Before, it had been small loans that I’d paid off quickly.”

“In whose names?” I could feel the nausea rising in my throat.

“Bank customers, people who rarely check their accounts,” Neils said in a whisper. “Older people mostly.”

Talia let out a sound like a strangled scream. “Oh my God, Neils—you… you’re a criminal.” She moved away from him as if he was contagious. “You’ve been stealing money from the elderly.”

“I wasn’t stealing,” he defended himself. “I took loans and paid them back. Nobody lost anything.”

“Except their trust and peace of mind,” I said bitterly. “You used the bank’s most vulnerable customers for your fraud.”

Neils covered his face with his hands. “I just wanted a better life for us. A house, a car, an opportunity for Talia not to work. What other people have.”

“Other people get it by honest labor,” I looked at my son with deep disappointment. “They work, they save. They don’t steal or cheat.”

“And not all of them,” Neils muttered. “You don’t realize how many people in the bank are running similar schemes. They’re just smarter and don’t get caught.”

“That’s an excuse,” Talia jumped up from her chair. “Everybody does it—why can’t I? You’re like a child, Neils. Thirty-six years old and you’re reasoning like a teenager.”

“And you?” He stood up too, pointing his finger at his wife. “You were quite happy when I brought home money. You didn’t ask where it came from when you bought your expensive clothes and jewelry.”

“Because you said they were bonuses—legitimate, honestly earned bonuses.”

They stood across from each other, red with anger, ready to be at each other’s throats. I watched this scene with growing bitterness. My son had turned into a man I neither knew nor respected. A man who looked for easy ways, who cheated, who shifted blame to others. And his marriage seemed to be all about money and mutual deceit.

“That’s enough,” I said firmly. “Sit down, both of you. We must decide what to do next.”

To my surprise, they obeyed. Maybe the habit of obeying the teacher’s tone was something they had kept from childhood.

“Neils,” I turned to my son. “What you’ve done is a crime—and more than one. You deserve to be punished.”

He lowered his head without objecting.

“But I don’t want to see my son in prison,” I continued. “Not because I don’t think you deserve it, but because I don’t think it will make you a better person.”

Neils looked up at me hopefully. “Thank you, Mom.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I held up my hand. “I have conditions. First, the house must be sold immediately. The loan must be paid off in full with all the interest.”

“But we just moved in,” Neils protested. “And lose money on the deal? That’s out of the question.”

“My tone left no room for argument. Secondly, you’re quitting the bank today.”

“But how will I pay the loan without a job?” Neils looked panicked.

“You’ll find another job. An honest job.” I was adamant. “And thirdly, you’ll confess your fraud to the bank’s management.”

Neils turned even paler. “I’ll be arrested.”

“Not necessarily.” I shook my head. “If you confess voluntarily, return all the illegally obtained funds, and agree to cooperate, the bank may prefer to settle the matter without involving the police. They don’t want a scandal.”

“And if I don’t?” Neils’s voice was shaking.

“Then I’ll go to the police myself.” I looked him straight in the eye. “With evidence. And I’ll insist on the maximum punishment.”

There was silence. Neils looked at me in disbelief, as if he couldn’t tell if his mother was really capable of such a thing. But in my gaze, he must have seen determination. I wasn’t bluffing.

“You don’t have a choice, Neils,” Talia intervened. “Ruth is right. We have to sell the house and pay off the loan. It’s the only way to make things right.”

Neils looked at his wife for support, but found only cold condemnation. “Are you against me, too?”

“I’m against your actions,” Talia answered. “You betrayed my trust. You deceived your mother. You committed financial crimes. I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”

I saw how those words hit Neils. He hunched over as if an invisible weight had been placed on his shoulders.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll do as you say.”

“Sell the house, resign from the bank, confess everything—and return all the illegally obtained funds,” I added.

“But I don’t have that kind of money,” he threw up his hands. “Everything was spent on the down payment for the house, furniture, repairs.”

“So you’ll sell the car, the jewelry—everything you bought with that money,” I was adamant. “And you’ll pay the rest from your salary at your new job.”

Neils lowered his head in a sign of surrender. “Whatever you say, Mom.”

I got up from the table. “I’ll call Terry Nibblock at your bank. He knows the situation and I think he can help us resolve it with minimal loss.”

“Terry knows?” Neils looked shocked. “How?”

“I met him yesterday before I came here,” I explained. “He showed me the loan documents and—from what he said—he suspected you of fraud for a long time.”

Neils turned even paler, if that was possible. “You planned the whole thing,” he whispered. “You knew everything in advance.”

“Not everything,” I shook my head. “But enough to know that my son had turned into someone I didn’t recognize.”

I pulled out my phone and dialed Terry’s number I’d written down yesterday. He answered after the third ring.

“Terry Nibblock here.”

“Terry, this is Ruth Hollinger. I have some news.” I briefly explained the situation—that Neils had confessed to the fraud, agreed to sell the house, and return the illegally obtained funds.

“That’s… good news, Mrs. Hollinger.” Terry sounded relieved. “But you realize I have to report this to the management.”

“Of course,” I nodded, though he couldn’t see it. “That’s exactly what I want to do. But I hope the bank would prefer to settle the matter without involving the police. It’s in the best interest of all parties.”

“I’ll talk to the director,” Terry promised. “But I must warn you, Neils will have to resign and return every last dime of illegally obtained funds.”

“He’s agreed to those terms. And another thing, Mrs. Hollinger—” Terry’s voice became more serious. “If it turns out that the fraud was more extensive than he admits, or if he refuses to cooperate fully, the bank will be forced to contact law enforcement.”

“I understand,” I replied. “And Neils understands too, don’t you, Neils?” I turned to my son, who was sitting with his head down. He nodded without looking up.

“Good,” Terry said. “Have him come to the bank at two today. I’ll arrange a meeting with the director and the lawyer.”

I thanked Terry and hung up.

“Two o’clock, Neils,” I said. “You have a meeting with the bank director and the lawyer. I’ll go with you.”

“Why?” He looked up at me with a haggard expression. “To make sure I don’t run away?”

“No.” I shook my head. “To support you. No matter what, you’re still my son.”

Tears glistened in his eyes, but he quickly looked away.

Talia, who had been silent all this time, suddenly spoke up. “I’ll go, too,” she said with determination. “I want to know the whole truth. I want to hear exactly what you did, Neils.”

He looked at his wife with pain and fear. “You will leave me when you know everything.” It was not a question, but a statement.

Talia didn’t answer, but her silence was more eloquent than words.

We packed up and left the house—the house that should have been the beginning of a new life for Neils and Talia, but instead had become a symbol of their downfall. On the way to the bank, we hardly spoke at all. We were each absorbed in our own thoughts. I was thinking about how strangely life had turned. Just a few days ago, I was just an old retired teacher living a quiet, measured life. Now I was on my way to the bank to help my son avoid jail for financial crimes.

It was bitter to realize that the man I had raised was capable of such deceit. But it was even more bitter to realize that I may have contributed to shaping his character myself—forgiving too much, coming to his aid too often.

The meeting at the bank went about as I had expected. The director, an older man with a stern face, was shocked by Neils’s confession—but, as Terry had predicted, preferred to settle the matter without involving the police. The bank’s reputation was too important. The terms were strict: immediate dismissal, full restitution of all illegally obtained funds, signing a confession of wrongdoing that would be kept at the bank as a guarantee of Neils’s continued cooperation. If he tried to evade payments or hide any details of his frauds, the bank would hand over the documents to the police.

Neils signed the papers with a trembling hand, then handed over his pass and left the bank building—now an ex-employee, with his career and reputation ruined. As he stepped outside, he looked lost and devastated.

“What now?” he asked quietly.

“Now you start over,” I replied. “You find an honest job, pay off your debts, learn to live within your means.”

“And you try to save your marriage,” Talia added, looking at him with a mixture of pity and disappointment. “If it’s still possible.”

Neils looked at his wife hopefully. “You’re not leaving?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she answered honestly. “I need time to think things over—to see if I can trust you again.”

I watched them from the sidelines, feeling strangely detached. My son and his wife were adults with their own problems and decisions. I had done everything I could to make things right. Now they had to deal with the consequences on their own.

“I’m going home,” I said, hailing a cab. “Call me when you’re ready to discuss selling the house.”

“Aren’t you going to help us?” Neils sounded panicked. “Mom, I don’t know what to do next.”

“You’re a grown man, Neils.” I looked at him firmly. “It’s time to start solving problems on your own instead of waiting for your mom to fix everything.”

I got into a cab and gave the driver my address. Looking out the window at the departing figures of my son and daughter-in-law, I felt a mixture of bitterness and relief—bitterness that my son was not the man I thought he was; relief that the truth had finally been revealed and now everyone could move on.

At home, I made myself a cup of tea and sat by the window watching Phoenix City in the evening. The city lived its normal life—people going about their business, unaware of the drama that had played out in our little family.

The phone rang around eight in the evening. It was Terry.

“Mrs. Hollinger, I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Thank you, Terry. Yeah, doing okay,” I said.

“Honestly, you did the right thing,” his voice sounded confident. “A lot of people would just turn a blind eye, especially when it comes to their own son.”

“I taught my students that every action has consequences,” I said. “It would be hypocritical not to apply that rule to my own son.”

“You’re an amazing woman, Mrs. Hollinger,” Terry said with genuine admiration. “If you need anything—anything at all—just give me a call.”

I thanked him and hung up. Then I pulled an old photo album out of my desk drawer and began flipping through the pages—Neils as a child, a smiling boy with a knocked-out front tooth; Neils as a teenager, serious and a little sullen; Neils at graduation with barely concealed impatience, quicker to get out from under his mother’s care. Where did I go wrong? When did my son turn into a man capable of deceit and betrayal?

Maybe I forgave him too much as a child. Or, on the contrary, was I too strict, forcing him to look for workarounds? I closed the album. There was no point in digging into the past. What’s important is what’s happening now and what will happen next. Neils made his choice. Now he has to live with the consequences. And I have to live my life—without letting my son’s mistakes determine my future.

Three months flew by like a day. I sat on the veranda of my new home, enjoying the warm spring sunshine and a cup of tea. A small but cozy one-story house with a garden in a quiet neighborhood of Phoenix City became my refuge—a place where I finally found peace after all the turmoil.

The sale of that luxurious mansion bought by Neils under false documents went surprisingly smoothly. Terry Nibblock, true to his word, helped to organize the deal so that we were able to repay the loan with minimal losses. Of course, we had to sell the house for less than its market value—buyers feel the desperation of sellers as sharks smell blood. But the main thing is that this story ended and my name was no longer associated with the fraudulent loan.

Moreover, the bank—trying to avoid a public scandal—paid me compensation for moral damages. Not a huge sum, but enough for me to afford this small house. The bank director personally apologized for the actions of his employee and assured me that this would not happen again. They strengthened the system of checking documents and introduced additional control measures.

I felt no gloating at Neils’s fall—only sadness and disappointment. My son had lost everything: his prestigious job, his dream home, and now his wife. Talia filed for divorce almost as soon as the deception was discovered. She couldn’t forgive the betrayal, and I understood. Trust is a fragile thing. Once broken, it rarely fully recovers.

Neils was now working for an insurance company as a junior agent. With his background in finance, he could have qualified for more, but rumors of his dismissal from the bank had spread throughout the city, and many doors had closed to him. His salary was modest, most of it going to pay off the bank—reimbursement for illegally obtained funds. He moved into a small apartment on the outskirts of town, and as far as I knew from mutual acquaintances, he had deteriorated. He was gaunt.

I did not feel satisfaction from his suffering. But there was no pity either. He had made his choice. He had deliberately deceived. And now he was paying for his actions. It was a lesson he had to learn.

The ringing of the doorbell interrupted my musings. Elizabeth Gray, my former high school colleague, stood on the doorstep with a large basket of homemade cookies.

“Ruth, you look beautiful.” She hugged me with genuine warmth. “This house is clearly doing you good.”

“Come in, Elizabeth.” I smiled as I let her into the house.

Everyone was already gathered in the living room. Every Wednesday, I invited my former teacher colleagues and some of my former students—the ones I’d kept in touch with over the years. We drank tea, discussed books, shared news, and just enjoyed each other’s company. Gradually, these meetings turned into a kind of support club for the elderly of the neighborhood. Many of us lived alone, and such companionship was invaluable.

Already sitting in the living room were Mary Baker, a former literature teacher; George Hopkins, a history teacher; Fay Windom, my former student and now an IRS employee; and Terry Nibblock, who had suddenly become a frequent visitor to my home.

“There’s our hostess,” Mary exclaimed as Elizabeth and I entered the room. “Ruth, Terry was telling us about his promotion. He’s now the deputy director of the department.”

Terry smiled, embarrassed. “Just a little promotion. It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t be modest.” I smiled as I poured the tea. “It’s a well-deserved recognition of your honesty and professionalism.”

After the story with Neils, Terry had really taken off. The bank director appreciated his integrity and promoted him. He was only thirty-two years old, but he already held a solid position and had good prospects.

“By the way, Ruth,” Fay pulled an envelope out of her bag. “I brought the stuff I was talking about on tax relief for pensioners. I thought you might be interested.”

“Thank you, dear.” I took the envelope, touched by her concern.

The conversation flowed freely and casually. We discussed the latest city news, the new book we had all agreed to read for the next meeting, the problems of education in modern schools. George, as always, complained about the decline in interest in history among the young, and Mary countered that her grandchildren, on the other hand, were very interested in the past—just in the form of historical movies and games, not textbooks.

I watched them with a warm feeling in my chest. These people became my new family—a family I had chosen for myself, based on mutual respect and sincere affection rather than blood ties.

After the guests left, I got busy preparing for tomorrow’s lesson. A month ago, I started helping the neighborhood kids with math for free. At first, it was just one boy, Simon, who couldn’t get the hang of fractions. Then his sister, Louise, joined him, then their friends. Now, I had five regular students, and I was teaching them two lessons a week.

It wasn’t just a return to teaching—it was a return to myself. Back to the Ruth Hollinger who had spent thirty-five years explaining the beauty of math to children, cheering their successes, supporting them in their failures. I felt needed, useful, alive again.

The ringing of the telephone interrupted my musings. “Ruth Hollinger speaking.”

“Mom, it’s me.” Neils’s voice sounded tentative, hopeful.

We hadn’t spoken in over a month. After everything that had happened, I kept my distance, unable to forgive the betrayal. Neils had tried several times to mend the relationship. He’d called, tried to visit, even sent gifts. I responded politely but coldly, not allowing him to come closer.

“Hello, Neils.” My voice sounded neutral. “Is something wrong?”

“No, just wanted to see how you were doing. I hear you’re taking lessons for the kids now.”

“Yeah, I’m helping the neighborhood kids with math. It’s nothing serious.”

“That’s… that’s great, Mom. You were always a great teacher.”

Awkward pause. We both didn’t know what to say next.

“Mom, I was wondering… if I could come over, talk in person. I’ve been rethinking a lot of things these past few months. I want to apologize—for real.”

I sighed. Part of me wanted to give my son another chance. But the more reasonable part remembered how many times I’d already forgiven him, how many times I’d believed his promises to change.

“I don’t think this is the right time, Neils. I’m very busy with these classes and club meetings.”

“Please, Mom.” There was desperation in his voice. “I know I screwed up. I screwed up big time, but I’m your son. Your only son.”

“Yes, you are,” I said calmly but firmly. “And that’s why I’m so hurt by what you did. You didn’t just deceive me, Neils. You used me. You used the fact that I trusted you unconditionally.”

“I know, Mom, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. But I want to make it up to you. I want to earn your trust again.”

“Trust isn’t something you just snap your fingers at, Neils. It takes time—a lot of time.”

“I understand that. That’s why I want to start now. Please, Mom, give me a chance.”

I closed my eyes, feeling my heart break. A mother’s love fought with my sense of self-preservation.

“Okay, Neils, you can write me a letter. Tell me everything you want to say. I’ll think about it.”

“A letter?” He sounded disappointed. “But I’d like to see you.”

“The letter first.” I was adamant. “If you really want to repair the relationship, start by respecting my boundaries.”

Pause.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll write to you. Thank you for the… for the chance.”

After the conversation, I sat looking out the window at my little garden for a long time. Spring was in full swing. The apple trees were blooming, filling the air with a delicate fragrance. Life went on despite all the upheavals and disappointments.

The next day, I taught a lesson to my young students. Simon had finally mastered fractions and was proudly solving problems at the blackboard I had set up in the small room that had become a makeshift classroom. Louise struggled with the equations, but never gave up—her stubbornness reminding me of me as a child. The other children were trying too, each to the best of their ability. I watched them with a warm feeling. That’s the real satisfaction—seeing young minds light up with understanding, overcoming difficulties, growing in self-confidence. No money, no prestige could compare with this feeling.

After the lesson, when the children dispersed, I noticed the letter carrier at my fence. He waved at me and put some envelopes in the mailbox. Among the usual bills and advertising brochures, I found a thick, unstamped envelope. On it was handwritten: “To Mom from Neils.” He must have brought it personally, but he didn’t dare to ring the doorbell.

I took the envelope into the house and put it on the table without opening it. I wasn’t ready to read it right now. First, I had to finish preparing for tomorrow’s club meeting. I’d promised to do a presentation on the impact of math on art—a topic I’d always been fascinated by.

In the evening, Carol Dutton—another of my former students, now a manager at a local bank—dropped by. She brought homemade baked goods as promised the last time we spoke.

“Mrs. Hollinger, your house is wonderful,” she marveled as she looked around the living room. “So cozy, so you.”

“Thank you, Carol. And please call me Ruth. You haven’t been my student for a long time.”

We sat at tea, discussing the latest news. Carol talked about her children, her work, her vacation plans. I listened with genuine interest, happy to hear about the successes of my former student.

“And how is your son?” she suddenly asked. “You rarely talk about him.”

I hesitated to answer. Carol, unlike Terry and Fay, didn’t know the whole story of the loan and the fraud. To her, I was just an elderly teacher who had recently moved into a new house.

“Neils is going through a difficult time,” I answered evasively. “Divorce, job changes. You know how it is.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Carol looked genuinely upset. “If there’s anything I can do to help—”

“Thank you, dear, but that’s something he has to deal with on his own.” I smiled softly. “Now, tell me more about this project your daughter is working on. It sounds very interesting.”

After Carol left, I looked again at the envelope from Neils lying on the table. I took it in my hands, twirled it, even held it up to the lamp as if I could see the contents through the paper. What had he written? A sincere apology or another excuse and attempt to shift the blame?

I remembered our marriage counselor we’d gone to when Neils was a teenager and we started having problems. “A toxic relationship remains toxic, even if it’s a parent-child relationship,” Dr. Lynch said. “Sometimes the best way to show love is to set healthy boundaries.”

I stared at the envelope for a long moment, then set it aside without opening it. Perhaps someday I’ll be ready to read this letter. Perhaps someday I would find the strength to forgive Neils completely. But right now, I had to protect myself—my newfound peace, my new life.

I went back to preparing my presentation on math and art. The children were coming tomorrow, and I wanted to show them how the Fibonacci numbers manifest themselves in nature, how the golden ratio is used in architecture, how mathematical principles underlie musical harmony.

My life took on a new meaning. I had a new family—people who valued me for who I was, not for what I could give them. I had a purpose—to share knowledge, to help others, to create a supportive community for those who needed it. And in this new life, there was no room for toxic relationships, even if they were with my only son.

Maybe someday Neils will truly change. Maybe someday he’ll realize that trust and honesty are more important than material goods. Maybe someday we can build a healthy relationship based on mutual respect.

But until that day comes, I’m going to live my life—a full, rich, meaningful life without regrets about the past or fear of the future—just savoring every day, every meeting with friends, every moment when understanding lights up in a child’s eyes.

I looked at the picture on the wall—my graduating class of 2000. Twenty-eight young faces full of hope and plans for the future. Many of them still kept in touch with me—visiting, calling, writing letters. They grew up, became doctors, engineers, teachers, businessmen. They created families, gave birth to children.

I couldn’t help but feel proud of them. For the people they had become, for their achievements and successes, for their kindness and decency. Maybe that was my greatest accomplishment in life. Not in my own son who chose to cheat, but in the hundreds of students I helped become better versions of themselves. In the impact I had on their lives through my example, my lessons, my faith in them.

And now, in this new beginning, I continued to do the same—to teach, inspire, encourage—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Because it brought real fulfillment and meaning.

The envelope from Neils remained on the table, unopened. I went back to my notes on Fibonacci numbers and the golden ratio, preparing for tomorrow’s lesson. Life went on, and it was beautiful in its simplicity and authenticity.