His mother had prepared the documents in advance.
She had left her apartment to the sick children in the neighboring department, so that the money could go toward treatment for those who had nobody else to help them.
Her son went pale.
« You’re lying! » he shouted. « This is a forgery! You forced her to do this! I’ll sue you! »
The chief doctor remained calm and placed the document in front of him.
« No. She made this decision herself, » he said. « She could have left the apartment to you. All you had to do was come at least once and ask how she was. Just once. »
The son stood there, not knowing what to do with his hands.
For the first time throughout everything that had happened, an emotion appeared on his face.
It was not grief.
It was not pain.
It was regret.
But it was a regret that had arrived too late to change anything.
His mother had spent her final weeks in the hospital waiting for him. Even on the night she died, with only the nurse and the chief doctor beside her, her last thought was still her son.
« Has my son come yet? »
He never came.
And by the time he finally arrived, there was nothing left for him to receive from the woman who had spent her last moments hoping to see him.
The apartment was no longer his inheritance.
His mother had chosen to give it to sick children who needed the money for treatment and, unlike her son, had nobody else to rely on.
He had waited for her death because he wanted her apartment.
She had waited for him because she wanted her son.
In the end, the only thing he inherited was the knowledge that he had been given countless chances to show his mother that he cared.
He had not taken even one of them.
And no document, no lawsuit, and no amount of regret could bring her back.
See more on the next page
