Mr. Tanaka, my mentor and friend from Japan, listened without interrupting. He was a man of few words, but his influence was unmatched. “I understand. Send me the details. I’ll have my legal team look into it immediately.”

I ended the call, feeling a sense of empowerment and resolve surging through me. I turned back to Colin, who was now cowering, a pitiful shadow of the brother I once knew. “You have two days,” I said coldly. “I want you out of here. I will not let you destroy what I built for Mom.”

Colin opened his mouth to protest, but any words were drowned by the sound of the front door slamming as I went back to my mother. I knelt beside her, taking her frail hands into mine. “Mom, it’s me, Paul. Your son. I’ve come home.”

Her eyes remained clouded, but there was a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—before a veil of confusion settled back over them. My heart ached, realizing the extent of her suffering. Gently, I helped her to her feet and led her to the living room.

As we sat, I could see Mrs. Tanaka’s team arriving outside. Lawyers in sharp suits carrying briefcases brimming with paperwork and power. They entered the house with the authority of those who knew they were on the side of justice.

I spent the next few hours discussing the situation with them, laying out every detail of the past five years—my sacrifices, my intentions for the house, and the exploitation my mother had suffered. They listened intently, assuring me they would do everything in their power to rectify the situation.

In the days that followed, the house was a flurry of activity. Colin and his family were escorted out, their belongings packed up and removed. I watched without a shred of sympathy as the movers carried out their expensive furniture, leaving the house emptier but also freeing it from the poisonous grip they had held.

For my mother, I hired a team of caregivers who treated her with the love and respect she deserved. Specialists came in to assess her health, and I devoted myself to restoring her comfort and dignity.

Slowly, life began to return to the villa. The garden was replanted, with hydrangeas in every color, and the walls were adorned with memories of happier times. As I sat with Mom in the evenings, holding her hand, I would tell her stories of our past, hoping to ignite a spark of recognition.

On one such evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the garden, Mom looked at me with clear eyes. “Paul,” she whispered, her voice soft but certain.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I smiled, squeezing her hand gently. I had come home, and finally, so had she.