Margaret left her home behind years ago, believing it would always be there waiting for her. But when the 78-year-old finally returned, her small house had vanished, replaced by a grand mansion with locked doors and a shocking secret inside. I sat by the window, watching the garden outside. The roses were in bloom, swaying gently in the breeze. I liked to watch them. I didn’t go outside much anymore—too cold some days, too hot on others. But the garden reminded me of something. Of home. Of the house I left behind.

I had a garden there once. A small one, just a patch of flowers by the porch. I didn’t know why I thought about it so much these days. Maybe because there wasn’t much else to think about.

The nursing home was quiet. Too quiet. The nurses came and went, always smiling, always polite. The other residents shuffled past my door, some talking to themselves, some staring blankly at the floor. My children left me long ago. First my daughter, who moved across the country. She sent letters at first, then holiday cards, then nothing at all. My son, David, left next. He got married, started a family, and never looked back. I used to wonder what I did wrong. I didn’t wonder anymore.

I made my choice years ago to leave the house and move here. It was easier than living alone. I still had the key, though. It sat in my bedside drawer. Sometimes, I held it in my palm, feeling its weight. It was warm, even though it shouldn’t have been. One afternoon, as I sat staring out the window, a nurse tapped my shoulder. “Margaret, you have a visitor.” I blinked. “A visitor?” She nodded, smiling. I didn’t get visitors. Not anymore. My hands trembled as I pushed myself up from the chair.

And then I saw him. David. He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking older than I remembered. His hair had grayed at the edges, his face lined in ways it hadn’t been before. But it was him. After 30 years, it was him. “Mom,” he said softly. I didn’t know what to say. “I—I hope it’s okay that I came,” he continued. “I just… I wanted to see you.” I gripped the arms of my chair. My heart pounded, but my voice came out steady. “Why now?”

He sighed, looking down. “My wife left me. Took the kids. I—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I spent years building a life with her, and now it’s gone. And it made me think about you. About how I left you.” I swallowed hard. “That was a long time ago.” “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry, Mom. I should’ve come back sooner.” Silence stretched between us. I wasn’t sure what to feel. Anger? Sadness? Relief? “I don’t know what to say to you,” I admitted. “I don’t expect you to say anything,” he said quickly. “I just… I want to make things right.” I didn’t answer.