It happened one Sunday at noon.
My son looked straight at me — in front of the whole family — and said, without flinching:
“Useless old man.”
I didn’t answer. I kept chewing, slowly, pretending not to notice how my chest tightened.
But the words stayed, heavy as stones.
I finished my meal in silence, stood up from the table, and went to my room.That afternoon, I sat alone, thinking.
I thought about my years of work, how I built that house brick by brick, how I raised my children — always making sure their plates were full before my own.
And I understood something painful:
they no longer respected me.Before dawn, I went to the hardware store and bought new locks for every door. While everyone was still asleep, I replaced them one by one.
When my son saw me kneeling by the doorway, his face went pale.
“What are you doing, Dad?”
“Fixing what was broken,” I said quietly.
When I finished, I called the family into the living room.From today on,” I told them, “anyone who wants to come into this house will have to ask me. There aren’t enough keys for everyone anymore.”
