At 29, I own the house my father raised me in after my mother left me at 11 for another man. Last week, she called, terminally ill, wanting to “fix things” and move back in, claiming it’s the home she raised me in. I refused, saying, “You didn’t raise me. You left.” She cried, calling me harsh, her only child.

I thought that was the end until police arrived yesterday. A neighbor reported an unresponsive woman on my steps—my mother, collapsed with suitcases, likely from exhaustion or skipping meds. She’s now hospitalized. Police asked if I’m her emergency contact; I said no. Guilt hit, but I’ve grieved her absence longer than most grieve the dead. She closed the door on me first; I won’t open mine now.

Am I heartless? No. I’m protecting my peace. I’ll ensure she gets care—contacting her doctor or social services to arrange hospice or support—but I won’t let her back into my life or home. Her choices broke our bond; my choice is to heal, not reopen old wounds. I’ll monitor her condition from a distance, but my door stays closed.