The two-story house on the corner was my mother’s life’s savings, built with the tears of a lifetime spent selling wares, and registered in her name. But that day, I stood right in front of the locked iron gate, watching my own son coldly point towards the street:

“Don’t blame me if you lost the property deeds (patta)! This house doesn’t welcome irresponsible people!” I felt like a ghost. The property deeds… it was true they weren’t in the cupboard a few days ago, but I didn’t dare suspect anyone.

I just noticed my son restlessly making phone calls, then suddenly changing the locks and throwing me out of the house like a stranger. I quietly turned my back. No tears. No begging. And I didn’t tell him: I still had a certified photocopy of the property deeds… and other more important documents he knew nothing about. That evening, I took my bag and went to stay temporarily with my neighbor, Aunty Radha. She was fond of me and let me sleep in the old room at the back, next to my son’s house. It was from there that I witnessed everything.

Three days later, I heard him throwing a party in the house, his voice arrogant with laughter: “The property broker said since the house is in Mother’s name, I had to make the deeds ‘disappear’ and wait over a month to forge new ones.

But now I have the scan, I’ve signed the deposit agreement; ₹20 lakhs will be finalized this week!” I froze. So that was it… Without hesitation, I called an old friend – now a retired economic crimes police officer but still well-connected. I explained everything, providing the photocopy of the deeds, related documents, the audio recording through the wall, and even a scan from the mini camera I secretly installed before leaving the house. Each piece was small, but together they formed an organized property fraud conspiracy.

Exactly one week later, as my son was leading the “house buyers” for a viewing, three plainclothes police officers, along with me, stepped out of Aunty Radha’s house. “Mr. Rohan – we invite you to the police station for questioning.

There’s a complaint against you for forging documents and attempting to sell property that doesn’t belong to you.” His face went pale. The man with him was stunned: “Huh… didn’t his mother agree to sell the house?” I stepped forward, pulled the original property deeds from my blouse pocket, my voice clear: “I am the owner of this house.

I have never authorized anyone. And if you want to know more, the police already have the file exposing his signature forgery scheme.” The story sent shockwaves through the entire neighborhood. Neighbors whispered, some felt pity, others scolded, some called me clever, while others felt sorry for my son, who was so greedy he lost his own mother. As for me… I felt no glee, no joy. I only felt relieved that I hadn’t placed all my trust in someone who called me mother but saw me as an obstacle to be removed.