“You said you called me twice. I didn’t receive any calls on my phone.”
When Serkan’s phone records were examined, it was revealed that he had redirected my mother’s calls to his own device. He had also deleted the messages he sent me.
While I thought I was neglecting my mother, they had deliberately closed all avenues between us.
A week later, my mother came to my house in Ankara. For the first few nights, she locked her bedroom door. She carried her coat with her when she went into the bathroom, and looked at the food on the table with suspicion.
One night, when I got up to get some water from the kitchen, I found her in front of the refrigerator. She had a small piece of bread in her hand.
“If you were hungry, why didn’t you wake me up?”
She lowered her head sheepishly.
“Melis wouldn’t give me food the next day if I went into the kitchen at night.”
At that moment, I wasn’t a prosecutor, just a girl who had belatedly realized how much her mother was suffering.
I hugged her.
“In this house, you won’t ask permission to ask for food.”
My mother cried on my shoulder.
“Why couldn’t I resist sooner?”
“Because they scared you.”
“I raised them.”
“Raising someone doesn’t mean you’re responsible for the evil they do.”
As the case progressed, other secrets were revealed.
Serkan hadn’t just taken my mother’s money. He had taken out a large loan in her name, using her house as collateral. The new will they had my mother sign wasn’t drawn up in the presence of an independent notary. Some of the signatures on the documents were forged.
Melis’s brother had also helped prepare the fake medical reports. The report stated that my mother had lost her ability to make decisions. However, it turned out that the doctor on the date of the report had never examined my mother.
Their intentions were clear.
First, they would seize all of my mother’s assets, then place her in a closed care facility and get rid of her for the rest of their lives.
A message Serkan wrote to Melis was found on his computer:
“If my mother wants to come back home, we’ll increase her sedatives. In a few months, no one will believe what she says.”
My hands trembled when I read this message.
The courthouse corridor was crowded on the day of the hearing. When Serkan saw me, a sorrowful expression formed on his face.
“Elif, I am your sister.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to let me go to jail?”
“I’m not sending you anywhere. The consequences of your actions are taking you there.”
“I looked after our mother. You didn’t come for years.”
“Beating her isn’t caring.”
Serkan approached me.
“If our mother dies, you will live with the guilt.”
This was the method he had used for years: shifting the blame onto others.
“If our mother had stayed with you, she would have died,” I said. “I’m trying to keep her alive.”
Melis, however, blamed Serkan for everything in the courtroom. She said he had pressured her, that she had no knowledge of the accounts. But when the invoices for the jewelry, the messages, and her signature on the hotel investment were presented to her, she fell silent.
Serkan, likewise, began to blame Melis.
Two people who had worked together against my mother for months, betrayed each other in a matter of minutes at the prospect of punishment.
My mother watched their argument. Then she turned to me and whispered:
“I neglected you for this.”
Throughout my childhood, Serkan was the apple of the family’s eye. When he made mistakes, he was protected; when he got into debt, my mother rescued him. I, on the other hand, had to fend for myself because I was strong.
But at that moment, I didn’t want to settle the score from the past.
“Don’t think about that now,” I said. “First, get better.”
The court temporarily halted all transactions on my mother’s assets. An independent administration, similar to a receiver, was appointed for the house and accounts. When the sale of the summer house was proven to be fraudulent, the transfer was canceled. A portion of the stolen money was recovered by seizing Serkan’s assets.
The hotel shares, the luxury car, and most of Melis’s jewelry were sold.
Not all the money was recovered. Some losses were never recouped.
But my mother was now regaining something more important than her money: the right to have a say in her own life.
She didn’t prepare a new will. She said she didn’t have to leave anything to anyone.
After getting back the summer house in Mudanya, instead of selling it, she donated it to a foundation to establish a temporary safe house for women and the elderly.
“So that people who are afraid like me can sleep peacefully for a few nights,” she said.
On the first day of opening, she arrived without a coat.
She wore a light blue dress. The scars on her wrists were still visible. She used to try to cover them up. That day, however, she didn’t hide them.
One of the journalists asked:
“How does it feel to suffer something like this at the hands of one of your children?”
My mother thought for a long time.
“A mother doesn’t want to accept that her child is a bad person,” she said. “That’s why sometimes she ignores the first slap, the first threat, the first lie. But love isn’t about hiding evil. Bringing a child into the world doesn’t give them the right to hurt you.”
Serkan and Melis were sentenced to prison at the end of the trial. The sentences they received for forgery, fraud, threats, unlawful detention, and systematic violence were not suspended.
When the verdict was announced, Serkan turned and looked at my mother.
“Forgive me, Mom,” he said.
My mother’s eyes filled with tears. But she didn’t stand up, she didn’t go to him.
“I will try to forgive you,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll save you.”
As we left the courtroom, she held my hand.
“Did I do the right thing?”
“Yes.”
“Would a mother leave her son like that?”
“Sometimes a mother has to stop her son from hurting others. Even if he hurts himself.”
My mother walked silently for a while. Then, for the first time, she breathed a sigh of relief.
A year passed.
My mother no longer lived with me. She had voluntarily rented a small apartment in a safe complex in Ankara. She went swimming twice a week, attended the municipality’s art class, and had breakfast with her neighbors.
She relearned how to use her own bank card. She never shared her phone password with anyone.
One day when I went to visit her, she opened the door wearing a pink cardigan.
“Aren’t you going to ask where my coat is?” she said, laughing.
“You don’t need it anymore.”
We sat on the sofa in the living room. She offered me a cake she had made herself. After a while, her face became serious.
“Sometimes I miss Serkan.”
“That’s normal.”
“Does missing him mean I’ve forgotten what he did?”
“No. A person can miss someone and still know they need to stay away from them.”
My mother nodded.
“I wish I had learned this sooner.”
I held her hand.
“It’s better to learn it late than never.”
As I was leaving the house that day, she called out after me.
“Elif.”
I turned around.
“I’m so glad you came that night.”
I smiled.
“I’m so glad you told me the truth.”
Because it wasn’t just the phone call I made that saved her. My mother chose to speak despite her fear.
Being old didn’t mean being weak.
Being a mother didn’t mean forgiving everything.
And being a family certainly didn’t mean hiding the wrongs done behind closed doors.
Sometimes truly loving someone wasn’t about staying silent on their behalf, but about telling the truth, even if everyone else was against you.
Do you think Mrs. Nermin should one day completely forgive her son who did these things to her, or should some doors remain closed forever even if some wounds are healed?
