The living room was quiet and still. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, and the soft ticking of the clock filled the room in a slow, steady rhythm. I was folding laundry when the silence was broken by my son’s words, “We don’t have room for you any more. You need to leave.”
His words felt like a sharp knife. Honestly, I though he was just joking and expected to see him smile when I turned to him. But no, he was as serious as he could be.
“Leave? What do you mean leave?” I asked. “Where would I go at this age?”
My son didn’t answer my question. He just said that he and his wife needed the room. They wanted to turn it into an office.
I looked at my daughter-in-law who was sitting on the sofa, looking at her phone. She heard everything, but she didn’t object, not even a single word. She didn’t even look at me.
My grandson, whom I raised and took care of while my son and his wife were busy living their lives, was busy playing his game. He, just like his mother, stood quiet, as though he didn’t care I was asked to leave.
After years of cooking, cleaning, doing their laundry, and taking care of their son, they no longer needed me.
“You know, there is a retirement home nearby. Maybe you could go there,” my son suggested. But I didn’t say anything. I just went to my room, which was no longer mine, and packed my things.
I got on the bus and headed toward the edge of the city where I found a modest guesthouse by the river and paid for a small, dusty room.
And then, I started thinking. What my son didn’t know was that I had saved a lot of money over the years. Enough to live the rest of my life as comfortably as a wished. And then I remembered. When my late wife and I were young, I always dreamed of owning a small café
that would offer different kinds of pastry. And now, at my sixties, maybe it was time for that dream to finally become a reality.
I didn’t think much before I started looking for a place where I could start my café.
After a couple of days, I found a narrow, dusty shop for rent on a tree-lined street. It was old, falling apart, but charming. A local carpenter repaired the front door and I painted the interior walls myself, choosing gentle shades of lavender and cream. I picked up secondhand furniture and buffed each item until it gleamed. Floating Clouds, a sanctuary for those who, like me, sought a place to belong, was opened.
During the first week, there were no customers, except for a man asking for hot water for his noodles. But I didn’t mind.
The second week, I placed a sign that read, “Free tea for people over 60. You are seen. You are loved,” and people seemed to love it.
It didn’t take long before the word spread around, and over time, my café was crowded, day and night.
Many people my age, and older, stopped by regularly, sharing stories of their youth. Some spoke of their ungrateful children, other remembered their days with their spouses, but all of them felt like they belonged somewhere safe and understood.
The place became so popular that it got featured in the local newspaper, and soon after, I spotted a familiar car pull over.
It was my son, his wife, and my grandson.
They were confused. “I heard of this place, and I learned the owner was…well you. Is that correct?” my son asked me.
“Yes, this is Floating Clouds, my café.”
“But…where did you find the money to open it?” my daughter-in-law had the audacity to ask.
I told them I had saved money over the years, despite paying bills and buying groceries while I lived with them. I also told them of the life insurance payout I received after my wife’s passing.
“Dad, I think you should return home,” my son said.
“Home?” I asked. “Thanks, but no thanks. This is my home now.”
My son got mad at me, but honestly, it didn’t bother me. Not even a bit.
I know they say that revenge is best served cold, but mine came warm, in a cup of hot, fresh coffee. And the best thing? I tasted sweet.
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Bored Daddy
Love and Peace
