Nowa żona mojego syna próbowała delikatnie wepchnąć mnie do „domu seniorów” — nie wiedziała, że ​​już zdecydowałem, kto tak naprawdę się wyprowadza.

“Yes. Everything is in my name. The papers, the deed, all of it.”

“Does Adrien know that?”

“No. We never talked about it. He just thinks I’ll leave it to him someday. And yes, that was the plan. But I never signed anything. I never did any paperwork. The house is still mine.”

Margaret thought for a moment. Then she looked at me with that look she gets when she’s about to say something important.

“Eleanor, you know what you have to do, right?”

“What?”

“Don’t tell them anything. Not yet. Let them go on with their plan. Let them get confident. And in the meantime, you prepare your defense.”

“My defense?” I repeated.

“Yes. Go see a lawyer. Make sure all your paperwork is in order. Document everything you can. And when the time comes—when you can’t take it anymore—then you show them whose house it really is.”

I just stared at her.

Margaret is seventy-two, two years older than me, but she’s always been the smart one. She was an elementary school teacher for forty years. She knows how to handle difficult situations. She knows when to speak and when to stay quiet.

“You think I should do that?” I asked.

“I think you need to protect yourself, Eleanor. And if your son isn’t protecting you—if he’s allowing his wife and his mother-in-law to disrespect you in your own home—then you have to protect yourself.”

She was right.

Margaret is always right.

I went home that afternoon with a clear idea.

I wasn’t going to fight.

I wasn’t going to yell.

I wasn’t going to make a scene.

I was going to be smart. I was going to observe. I was going to document.

And when the time came, I was going to act.

That night during dinner, Chloe told me she had seen some very nice apartments near downtown.

“They’re perfect for a single person,” she said, smiling that sweet, fake smile. “They even have an elevator and everything. That way, you wouldn’t have to climb stairs. They even have a common area where the residents get together,” she went on. “You could make new friends, Eleanor. People your age.”

Adrien was sitting next to her, eating his chicken in silence. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t defend me. He just ate, his eyes fixed on his plate as if nothing was happening.

“Oh, that sounds interesting,” I said to Chloe, pretending to care. “Send me the information on WhatsApp.”

She smiled even wider.

“Of course, Mom. I’ll send it to you first thing tomorrow.”

“Mom.”

Now she was calling me “Mom” because she thought she had won.

But she hadn’t won anything.

That night, when everyone else was asleep, I stayed awake in my room with my phone.

I Googled property lawyers in Phoenix.

I found three options.

I saved the numbers.

Then I opened my photo gallery and started taking pictures and screenshots of everything—of Chloe’s messages, of pictures of my house, how it was before and how it was now. Everything.

At two in the morning, I finally fell asleep—but not with fear, not with sadness.

I fell asleep knowing the war had begun, but that I knew how to fight too.

The next few days were strange.

I went about my normal routine as if nothing was wrong. I got up early, made coffee, went walking with my group on Saturdays, went to yoga with Margaret on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

But inside, I was completely alert—watching, noting everything in my head.

Chloe sent me the information on the apartments via WhatsApp, just as she’d promised. There were three options, all small, all cheap, all in neighborhoods I didn’t know.

I thanked her and told her I’d think about it.

She replied with a smiley face emoji and a heart, as if she were doing me a favor.

But things in the house kept changing.

Every day, something new.

One Thursday, I came home from grocery shopping at the Safeway down the road and found that they had moved all the living room furniture again.

The main sofa was now against the window.

The coffee table I had bought fifteen years ago at a clearance sale was shoved into the garage.

In its place was a new glass table I had never seen before.

“Do you like it?” Chloe asked when she saw me looking. “We bought it yesterday. It’s modern. Gives the living room a different feel, don’t you think?”

“We bought it.” She and who? Adrien hadn’t said anything to me.

I didn’t say anything either. Not at that moment.

I just nodded and went to the kitchen to put away my vegetables.

But when I got to the kitchen, I saw something that made me stop cold.

All my pots—the ones I had used for thirty years—were stacked in a cardboard box next to the refrigerator.

And on the stove were new pots: stainless steel, shiny, expensive sets I had not bought.

“Oh, yeah,” Chloe said, walking in behind me. “We updated the pots too. Yours were looking pretty old, Eleanor. These are non-stick. Much better. We’re going to donate yours.”

Donate my pots.

The pots I had cooked in for my husband for twenty years. The pots where I made Adrien his favorite meal every birthday. The pots that held the memory of thousands of dinners, thousands of moments.

“I see,” I said, and my voice came out colder than I expected. “But those pots are mine. And if anyone is going to donate them, it will be me.”

Chloe blinked.

For the first time, I think she noticed I wasn’t completely on board with everything she was doing. But she recovered quickly.

“Oh, Mom, of course. Whatever you say,” she replied. “We just wanted to help modernize the house a bit.”

Modernize.

That word again. As if everything of mine was old and needed to be replaced. As if I were old and needed to be replaced.

That night after dinner, I locked myself in my room and took out the house papers—the original documents, the deed that had been in my name for thirty-five years.

I read them completely, line by line.

I wanted to be absolutely sure.

And yes, there it was, printed in black and white.

“Eleanor Lopez, sole owner.”

No other name. No other signature.

The next day, a Friday morning, I called the first lawyer on my list.

A very polite receptionist answered.

“Good morning. Law Offices of Gregory Hayes. How may I help you?”

“Good morning,” I said. “My name is Eleanor Lopez, and I need a consultation regarding a property matter.”

“Of course, ma’am. When would you like to come in?”

“Do you have anything available this week?”

“Let me check… Yes, we have an opening on Monday at ten in the morning.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there.”

I gave her my information and hung up.

I felt a strange tightness in my chest. It wasn’t fear. It was determination.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was taking control of my own life.

The weekend was quiet but tense.

Chloe and Linda spent it measuring the walls of the spare room next to mine—the room where I kept my things, my books, my winter clothes, some boxes with photos and memories.

“This will be the baby’s room,” I heard Chloe say. “We’ll paint it a light yellow and put a crib here by the window.”

A baby.

She wasn’t even pregnant yet, and already they were planning to take over every corner of my house. They were already erasing me room by room, space by space.

Adrien was acting strange—quiet, distant.

Sometimes I’d see him looking at me as if he wanted to say something, but then Chloe would walk in and he’d go back to his silence.

It made me sad to see him like that.

My son. The boy I raised alone. The boy I taught to tie his shoes, to ride a bike, to be respectful and honest.

That boy was now a man who didn’t know how to defend his own mother—or worse, a man who had chosen not to defend her.

On Sunday night, Linda made dinner.

Without asking my permission, she used my kitchen as if it were hers. She made chicken in green salsa with rice. She set the table in the dining room, and when we sat down to eat, she spoke as if she were the host of the evening.

“Well, family,” she said, raising her water glass as if for a toast, “I want to propose something. Chloe and I have been thinking it would be a good idea to do a complete remodel of the house. Change the floors, paint all the walls, update the bathrooms. What do you all think?”

Adrien looked at her, surprised.

“A remodel? That costs a lot of money.”

“Yes, but it’s worth it,” Chloe insisted. “This house has so much potential. It just needs an update. And we can get a loan. With your salary and mine, we can pay it off in two years.”

A loan to remodel my house.

“And what do you think, Mom?” Adrien asked, finally turning to look at me.

They all looked at me. Chloe with that smile that no longer fooled me. Linda with a challenging stare, waiting for me to say something so she could attack. And Adrien, my son, looking at me with exhaustion, as if my opinion were just a formality he had to get through.

“I think,” I said slowly, choosing each word with care, “that a remodel is a very big and very expensive undertaking, and that we should think it through very carefully before deciding.”

“But Mom,” Adrien insisted, “if the house is going to be mine someday anyway, right? You told me so yourself. So it makes sense to invest in it now. So when I inherit it, it’s already nice.”

There it was.

The truth coming out all on its own.

Adrien believed the house was already practically his. That it was just a matter of time. And Chloe and Linda had used that belief to build their entire plan.

“Yes, Adrien,” I said, staying calm. “Someday this house might be yours. But that day hasn’t come yet. And as long as that day hasn’t come, the big decisions about this house are made by me.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table.

Chloe stopped smiling.

Linda pressed her lips together, her eyes narrowing.

Adrien looked at me, confused, as if I had just said something completely unexpected.