Earlier this year, I gave my condo to my grandson, 19, who’s lived with me since his mother left. Suddenly, she returned, pregnant with her husband, demanding the condo. “We need this more, we’re a family,” they said.
I refused to listen, until I found her sitting on my couch one afternoon—arms crossed, eyes smug—like she’d never left. Let me back up a bit. My name is Noreen.
I’m 67, retired, and I’ve lived in the same modest two-bedroom condo in Glendale for over 30 years. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine, paid off, and filled with memories—some good, some I’d rather forget. My daughter, Daritza, left when she was 22.
She’d had my grandson, Renzo, young—barely 17. Her boyfriend at the time split a few months after Renzo was born. I helped raise him while she floated in and out of jobs, apartments, and sometimes reality.
When she took off to Arizona “just for a few weeks” and never came back, Renzo was only seven. I stepped up. I raised him.
Soccer games, school pickups, late-night math homework—he became my world. And I never resented it. He was always kind, quiet, a little shy, but respectful.
A good kid. When he graduated high school last year, I surprised him. I told him the condo would be his.
Not right away—I’d still live there—but I had updated my will and planned to formally gift it to him while I was alive. I even called a lawyer and handled the paperwork properly. His eyes welled up.
He hugged me for the first time in months. “Thank you, abuela,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”
