Just after transferring the land title of the house to our eldest son, thinking we could finally rest in our old age, less than two months later he said something that left my wife and me in tears…

Life is like a river—sometimes calm, sometimes violently rushing. I, an old man in my seventies, sat quietly on the porch, watching the fading golden rays of the day with a heavy heart. My hands and feet trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight of old age and regret. My wife was the same—her bent back seemed as if it wanted to merge with the ground, her sighs becoming the familiar sad melody echoing in our empty house.

This land, this house, the place we had spent our entire lives building, no longer belonged to us. Two months ago, in a moment of weakness, I decided to transfer everything to our eldest son. He was the firstborn, and the old tradition was deeply ingrained in me: the eldest must shoulder responsibility, must worship the ancestors. My wife and I believed it was the right thing to do, the way to find peace in our twilight years. As for our youngest, we had already given him some money to start his life—a fair form of compensation. The boy was understanding; he never uttered a word of resentment, only accepted it quietly.

On the day the papers were signed, Hùng and his wife, our eldest son and daughter-in-law, were so cheerful. My daughter-in-law fussed over me, rubbing my back, massaging my shoulders, sweetly saying:
“Don’t worry, Mom and Dad. From now on, this house is ours, and you two just need to rest. You’re old now, just stay with us—you won’t lack anything.”

Hearing those words, my heart swelled with joy, a peace I had never known before spreading through my chest. I thought: this is complete, this is perfect. At last, I had fulfilled my duty as a father, husband, and grandfather.

But that peace didn’t last long. The sweet façade began to crack barely two months later. Subtle remarks, annoyed looks from my daughter-in-law, grew more frequent.
“You’re old now. Just let me handle things. If you keep meddling, what if something gets ruined?” she said one day when my wife was struggling to clean the kitchen.

Her tone wasn’t loud, but every word was like a needle piercing my ears, my heart. My wife flinched, the broom slipping from her hand and clattering onto the tiled floor. She bent down to pick it up, then silently walked into the bedroom, saying nothing.

I tried to comfort myself: “Never mind, it’s good the children can take care of things—we don’t need to do anything anymore.” But where was the comfort? Instead, the feeling of uselessness grew stronger. I felt like a stranger in my own home. The door to our bedroom, once always open, now seemed like a barrier—separating me from the lively world outside, from the grandchildren I loved so much.

One rainy afternoon, while I was weaving baskets, Hùng came in. He sat across from me, his face hesitant.
“Dad,” he cleared his throat, “I want to discuss something with you and Mom. The house is too crowded and cramped now. Could you two move over to Uncle Tâm’s place for a while? My wife and I want to renovate the house. It’s too inconvenient like this.”

His words were like a sharp blade stabbing straight into my heart. I looked up at my son—the son I had loved with all my heart, trusted with everything. But in his eyes, I saw no concern—only calculation and indifference.

He said the house was cramped, but I knew it wasn’t true. He said it was inconvenient, but I understood—we were the inconvenience. Once the land title was transferred, once the house no longer belonged to me, I had become nothing more than a useless object, a burden to be moved aside.

I sat in silence, listening to my wife’s muffled sobs from the bedroom. Her tears weren’t just water—they were a river of pain and shattered hopes. I wanted to cry out, to ask my son: “Why? Why can you treat your parents this way?” But my throat was tight, no words would come out.

I was angry—but I didn’t know at whom. At Hùng, for being so ungrateful? Or at myself, a foolish old man who had pushed himself into this misery with his own hands?

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Pain and regret wrapped tightly around me. The land where I once held the hoe and shovel, the bricks and tiles I had laid with my own hands, had now become something foreign. The next morning, I quietly packed our clothes—just a few faded pieces. An old suitcase carried both my youth and my old age. My wife remained silent, only wiping away the endless tears that kept falling. Looking at the familiar objects, the family photos on the walls, my heart was torn apart. This house, once a warm home, had now become a place we had to leave.

Ashamed and heartbroken, I led my wife to our youngest son’s house. When Tâm saw us, his eyes widened in shock.
“Dad, Mom… why are you here?” he asked, his voice trembling.
I couldn’t lie, so I bowed my head. “We… will stay with you and your wife for a while.”
I heard my wife sob. My son said nothing—he just quietly cleared out a small room, perhaps one he used for storage, and turned it into a shelter for his parents.

That evening, we all gathered around the dinner table. The meal was simple, but why did it feel so heavy? Tâm, his wife, and their two children looked at us with eyes full of sympathy.
“Please eat, Mom and Dad. Let me serve you,” my younger daughter-in-law said warmly, so different from my eldest son’s wife. She served us food, then served her husband and children. Suddenly, tears fell from my eyes. I felt both deep love for my youngest son and overwhelming shame toward myself. I had been foolish. I had been wrong.

Many nights I lay awake, tossing and turning on the unfamiliar bed. I kept thinking about the saying: “Parents raise their children with endless devotion, but children care for their parents by counting the days and months.” I once thought of it only as a teaching, but now I tasted its bitter truth. If only I hadn’t clung so tightly to old traditions, if only I had divided the inheritance fairly among my sons, perhaps I wouldn’t be in this position—relying on others for shelter. But what was done was done. Regret could not change anything.

Since then, I lived with my youngest son. My younger daughter-in-law was gentle and thoughtful. She cared for us wholeheartedly, never uttering a complaint. Each time I watched her cook or clean, I thought: “My youngest is blessed to have married such a good wife.” My shame only deepened.

One evening, Tâm came into our room. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes thoughtful.
“Dad,” he cleared his throat, “since you and Mom came here, I’ve seen how sad you are. If something is troubling you, please tell me. I’ll help however I can.”
I stayed silent as tears welled up. “It’s nothing, son… it’s just… I feel guilty. Back then, I wasn’t fair. I gave everything to your brother, and now I have to trouble you and your wife.”

Tâm held my hand firmly, his voice warm:
“Dad, what are you saying? You and Mom are my parents. You didn’t trouble us—you came home. I don’t blame you. I understand that back then, you only did what you thought was best for us.”

His words were like a gentle breeze soothing my soul, easing the pain and regret. I broke down, crying uncontrollably, all the bitterness and hurt pouring out.

A week later, Hùng, his wife, and their children came to visit. They spoke sweetly, coaxing us to return.
“The house is renovated now, Dad and Mom. Come back with us—it’ll be easier for us to take care of you.”

I looked at them, then at my youngest son’s modest home, then at my wife. She shook her head softly, her eyes saying everything.
“We’re old now. Anywhere is fine. You two just focus on your life. We’re used to staying here with Tâm.”

Seeing our determination, they had no choice but to leave.

Our life in Tâm’s home was simple but filled with love. Every day, my younger daughter-in-law asked: “What would you like to eat, Mom and Dad? I’ll cook it. Do you need anything? I’ll buy it.” Those seemingly simple questions warmed my heart beyond measure. I realized that happiness isn’t about a big house or wide land, but about love and sincere care.

Time passed peacefully as we lived with Tâm’s family. Occasionally, Hùng and his wife came to visit, but the closeness was gone. I understood now—wealth cannot buy affection. Love must come from the heart. I once believed that wealth meant having everything, but now I knew I had been wrong.

One morning, I woke up early and saw my younger daughter-in-law cooking. She turned, smiling:
“Dad, come eat porridge. I made this for you and Mom.”

Sitting at the table, I looked at my wife, at my youngest son, at my daughter-in-law, and at my grandchildren. My heart felt light. I had once had a big house, but now I had a true family. I had once been consumed by regret, but now I was grateful for my mistakes—because they had led me here, to peace, to true happiness.

Perhaps children are the greatest treasure of parents, and love is the one inheritance that never runs out.

At last, I found my answer. I blamed no one—not my son, not my daughter-in-law. The mistake was mine. But I was thankful, because that mistake had brought me to this second home, where I was cherished and cared for.

I looked at my wife. She smiled too—not the sad smile she once wore, but one full of peace and serenity.

And so, we lived out our remaining years in the loving arms of our youngest son. Even Hùng and his wife realized their mistakes. They often visited, apologizing. We forgave them—because the bond between parent and child can never be erased. But we never returned. We had already found our happiness here, in this small house, with those who welcomed us with open hearts.

I am now over seventy, my health weakening, but my spirit stronger than ever. My hands no longer tremble, my heart no longer aches. I had finally found peace within myself.

Happiness is not in what you give away, but in what you receive in return. I had given away land and a house—but I had received love and warmth. And that is more precious than any treasure in this world.