My only son, Daniel, is 46. I paid for his education, helped him buy his house, and supported his family whenever they needed money.
But last Sunday, he came to visit me with a strange expression on his face.
“Dad, we need to discuss your inheritance.”
I laughed.
“Son, I’m still alive.”
He didn’t smile.
“You’re seventy-eight. It’s time you transferred everything into my name.”
I refused.
That’s when his expression changed completely.
“If you don’t leave me your entire fortune, I’ll put you in a nursing home and make sure you never see your grandchildren again.”
I felt as though someone had punched me in the chest.
“Daniel, I’m your father. How can you say something like that?”
He stood up.
“You have until tomorrow to change your mind.”
That evening, I sat alone in my living room, staring at my wife’s empty chair.
