When my brother and his wife decided to fly away on vacation for a week, I was surprised. For the first time in a long while, he seemed genuinely concerned about taking his mother along. It sounded like a spark of care and humanity had returned in his voice.

But I knew his wife—a woman with a difficult character—was against the idea. Mom has been in a wheelchair for years, and I overheard her trying to convince my brother that the trip would be “too inconvenient.”

“You understand that we can’t look after your mother the whole vacation,” she said. “Let’s do it next time…”

But my brother insisted.

Though anxious, I helped Mom get ready. We carefully packed her things, I saw them to the airport, and said goodbye. Mom smiled—she was pleased that her son had not forgotten about her.

Only half an hour had passed when I received a call from Mom.

“Mom? Why are you calling? You should have taken off already!”

“They flew away without me…”

Her voice was trembling.

“They said I was with them, but when they went to board, my sister-in-law said she would first check us in and then come back for me. She just disappeared. Then I saw them through the window… They flew away, and I was left here. Alone.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I ran back to the airport. Mom was sitting there in the waiting room, suitcase beside her, still in her coat, tearful and confused. I hugged her tightly, furious at how cruelly and meanly they had treated her.

Later, I discovered that my sister-in-law had lied to my brother, telling him Mom was already on the plane and everything was fine. He sat there, unaware, thinking all was well. How convenient—to get rid of the “burden” while appearing caring.

That’s when I realized I had to teach this impudent woman a lesson and show that an elderly person should never be treated like this.

My brother and his wife had lived in our parents’ house. Mom had always tried to be kind, putting up with a lot. But now I knew—there was nothing more to tolerate.

While they were on vacation, I spoke with Mom. Without hesitation, she signed a deed of gift for the house—in my name.

“You are my daughter, and I know you will not leave me at the airport like unwanted luggage,” she said.

The house was now ours. Legally. Officially. Fairly.

A week later, my brother and his wife returned from vacation—tanned, happy, holding a stack of photos. But I met them at the door.

“Take your things, please. Live somewhere where your ideas about family still mean something. This is no longer a place for you.”

My sister-in-law screamed, threatened, and my brother tried to explain. But it was too late.

Mom sat by the window, drinking tea, smiling. This time—for real.