When he arrived, a surprise indeed awaited him. We handed him an envelope with a copy of his mother’s will.
The grandmother had drawn up the paperwork in advance and given her apartment to sick children from a neighboring department, so that the money would go toward the treatment of those who had no one.
The son turned pale.
“You’re lying!
It’s a fake! You forced her! I’ll sue you!”
The head doctor calmly placed the paper in front of him:
“No.
She decided so herself. She could have left the apartment to you. You just had to come at least once and ask how she was.
At least once.”
My son stood, unsure what to do with his hands. And for the first time, emotion appeared on his face—not pain, not grief, but a belated, useless regret. But his grandmother never waited for him.
