She Was Treated Like a Slave by Her Own Family— Then One Bus Ride Changed Everything

For two long years, I worked tirelessly—scrubbing floors at the hospital during the day and working the grocery store checkout at night—just to feed my son and his wife, who mocked me, calling me their “personal slave.” Exhausted after a 14-hour shift, I collapsed on a night bus, clutching my purse as if it held the last vestiges of my dignity. At that moment, I heard a phone call. My heart sank, because what the stranger was saying…

For two years, I worked myself into the ground. By day, I scrubbed hospital floors until the smell of bleach clung to my skin. By night, I stood on aching feet behind the register of a grocery store, ringing up smiling customers while pretending my world wasn’t collapsing. Fourteen-hour days, seven days a week—that was my life.

And why? To support my grown son and his wife, who saw me not as a mother, not as family, but as free labor. They called me their “personal slave” with cruel laughter, tossing the words around like a joke while I cooked their meals, folded their laundry, and paid their bills. Every time I came home from work, their voices greeted me not with love but with demands: Where’s dinner? Don’t forget the rent’s due. Did you iron my shirt yet?

I told myself I was just helping them get on their feet. But deep down, I knew the truth—they were using me, draining every ounce of strength I had left. My heart felt like it was withering, drying out from years of being unappreciated and unloved.

One evening, after a particularly grueling shift, I dragged myself onto the last bus home. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, the kind that made everything look gray and tired. I sank into a hard plastic seat, clutching my purse like it held the last scraps of my dignity. My eyelids were heavy, but then I heard something that jolted me upright.