The Truth the Building Manager Revealed

The building manager wanted to evict me, claiming I hadn’t paid the rent — even though I gave the money to my grandson every month.
I never imagined that, at seventy-two years old, I would end up resting my head on a narrow bed in a shelter.

I had spent my whole life working honestly, always paying my bills on time and taking care of my home.
I was never rich, but I always had enough to live with dignity and peace.

When my husband passed away, I decided to sell the family home and rent a smaller apartment in the city — closer to the hospital, because at my age, every minute counts.
I gave the old house to my grandson for a symbolic price. He was all I had left — my daughter had died two years earlier at just forty-three, after a long illness.

My grandson told me he would handle things for me since I “didn’t understand how online payments worked.”
— “Don’t worry, Grandma. Just give me the money each month, and I’ll pay the rent.”

And I trusted him. After all, he was family.
Every month, during the first week, I handed him an envelope with the exact amount — sometimes even a little extra, in case the service fees had gone up.

But last week, the building manager knocked on my door.
He looked pale and uncomfortable.
— “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the rent hasn’t been paid for three months. I’ve already signed a contract with a new tenant. You need to vacate by the weekend.”

I froze at the door, wearing my slippers and my old cardigan.
— “But… I gave the money to my grandson,” I whispered.
He just sighed and shook his head.

That night, I packed a small bag: a few clothes, my medicine, and a photo of my daughter in a frame.
I asked the movers to take the rest of my things to a storage unit.
And that’s how I ended up in a women’s shelter.
The bed creaked under my weight, the blanket was too short, and shame filled my heart.
I couldn’t understand how everything had fallen apart so fast.

The next day, I called my grandson.
He simply said,
— “Grandma, I paid everything. It must be a mistake by the manager.”

I wanted so badly to believe him.
— “Can I stay with you for a few days until this gets sorted out?” I asked softly.
— “No, Grandma. The house is small, and we need the guest room,” he replied coldly.

That night, I could hardly sleep.
Shame and despair crushed me.

But the next morning, my grandson’s wife appeared at the shelter door.
She looked pale, trembling, holding a small purse, her eyes full of tears.
She leaned toward me and whispered,
— “I need to tell you something…”

I sat on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding.
She took a deep breath and continued:
— “The money you gave him… he never paid the rent. He spent it on gambling. I tried to stop him, but he threatened me. Yesterday he lost everything. And when the manager came to collect, he told me to keep quiet.”

For a moment, everything went silent.
— “So… my own grandson deceived me?” I murmured, my voice trembling.

She nodded and placed an envelope in my hands.
— “This is what’s left. He left this morning. He said he’s not coming back.”

I cried quietly — not for the money, but for the realization that love can vanish where you least expect it.

Days later, the building manager came to the shelter.
He told me that after hearing the full story, the new tenant had withdrawn from the contract.
— “You can come back home, Mrs. Helena. We’ll sort out the rent together.”

I returned to my apartment with a heavy heart, but also with a new feeling — the courage to start over.
This time, I decided to handle everything myself.
And every night before I go to sleep, I look at my daughter’s photo and whisper:
— “Life is fragile, my dear… but as long as there is faith, there will always be a home.”