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

“Family,” she wrote, “I propose we have a special lunch this Sunday. My treat. I want us to have a nice moment all together.”

I read the message three times.

A special lunch. Now.

It was too much of a coincidence.

Either she was planning something, or she genuinely wanted to make peace. But after everything that had happened, I no longer believed in her good intentions.

Adrien replied almost immediately.

“Sounds good. What are we having, Chloe?”

“I’m making your favorite roast chicken with potatoes,” she wrote back. “And for dessert, the tres leches cake you love.”

I didn’t respond.

I just left the message on “read.”

Friday night, as I was lying in bed scrolling through my phone, I heard voices in the living room.

It was Chloe, Linda, and Adrien.

They were talking loudly, as if they no longer cared if I heard them.

“Sunday will be perfect,” Linda was saying. “We’ll show her that we are a united family, and if she wants to remain part of this family, she has to cooperate.”

“And if she doesn’t cooperate?” Adrien asked.

“Then we’ll have to take more drastic measures,” Chloe replied.

“Adrien, you know your mom is getting old. She’s stubborn. She’s confused. Maybe she needs professional help.”

Professional help.

Were they implying I was crazy?

“Chloe, don’t exaggerate,” Adrien said. But his voice sounded weak, unconvinced.

“I’m not exaggerating,” she insisted. “Your mom is behaving irrationally. She won’t let us improve the house. She treats us poorly. She makes us feel unwelcome. That’s not normal, Adrien.”

I lay there frozen, listening.

They were building a narrative.

They were painting me as the crazy one. The problem. The one who was wrong.

And Adrien was listening to them.

Not defending me.

I grabbed my phone and opened the recorder. I turned up the sensitivity setting and let it record everything—every word, every accusation, every lie.

Saturday morning, Chloe and Linda went out to buy the groceries for Sunday lunch.

I used that moment to talk to Adrien.

I found him in the living room watching television, some football game on the flat-screen they’d insisted on mounting over my old mantel.

“Adrien, I need to talk to you,” I said.

He muted the TV and looked at me, weary.

“What is it, Mom?” he asked.

I sat across from him and looked him in the eye.

My son. My only son. The boy I had raised alone.

“Why don’t you defend me?” I asked.

Adrien looked down.

“Mom, I don’t want to be in the middle of this,” he said.

“But you are in the middle,” I said. “You live here. You see how they treat me. You hear how they talk to me. And you say nothing.”

“It’s just that you don’t compromise either,” he said, his voice full of complaint now. “Chloe just wants to make improvements to the house. She wants us to live nicely. And you oppose everything.”

“I oppose them making decisions about my house without consulting me,” I replied. “There’s a difference.”

“But Mom, you said the house would be mine someday,” he repeated.

“Someday, Adrien. Not today,” I said. “Why is that so hard to understand?”

He fell silent.

“You know what I think?” I continued. “I think Chloe has you convinced that I’m the problem. That I’m the one who’s wrong. That I’m the one not cooperating. But the truth is, ever since she arrived, everything has changed. And not for the better.”

“Chloe is my wife, Mom,” he said.

“I know,” I said softly. “And I want you to be happy with her. But not at the cost of me losing my dignity in my own home.”

Adrien stood up from the sofa.

“We’re having a family lunch tomorrow,” he said. “I hope you can come with a better attitude.”

And he went to his room.

I just sat there alone in the living room, staring at the turned-off TV.

And I understood that my son had already chosen.

Not me.

Them.

Sunday arrived.

I got up early, took a long shower, and put on my favorite brown dress, the one my sister sent me from San Diego. I did my makeup, fixed my hair, and put on my pearl earrings.

I wanted to look good.

I wanted to look strong.

By noon, Chloe was already in the kitchen preparing the food. Linda was setting the table in the dining room, and Adrien was helping with the drinks.

It looked like a normal American family scene—a Sunday lunch in a modest house with football playing faintly somewhere in the background.

But I knew none of it was normal.

At one in the afternoon, everything was ready.

The table was set.

The chicken smelled delicious.

The tres leches cake was in the fridge.

They were all seated, waiting for me to come down.

I walked down the stairs slowly.

The three of them looked at me as I entered the dining room.

“So glad you decided to join us, Eleanor,” Linda said with that fake smile.

“Sit down, Mom,” Adrien said, pointing to my usual chair.

I sat.

Chloe served the chicken. Linda passed the potatoes. Adrien filled the glasses with iced tea.

For a few minutes, we ate in silence.

Then Chloe cleared her throat.

“Well, family,” she began, “I invited you to this lunch because I wanted to talk about something important.”

Here it came.

Whatever they had planned.

“As you know,” Chloe continued, “Adrien and I want to start our own family. We want to have children. We want to build our future. And for that, we need stability.”

I looked at Adrien.

His eyes were fixed on his plate.

“That’s why,” Chloe went on, “we’ve been thinking that the best thing would be for you, Eleanor, to find a place that’s more suitable for you. A place where you’ll be comfortable. Where you won’t have to worry about maintaining such a big house. There are some very nice senior living communities around here—places where you can make friends, have activities, be well cared for.”

Senior living communities.

A nursing home.

They wanted to put me in a nursing home.

“And what do you think about this, Adrien?” I asked without looking at him.

There was a long silence.

Then I heard his voice, quiet, almost inaudible.

“I think… I think it could be a good option, Mom,” he said. “So you can be more relaxed.”

I felt something shatter inside me.

My own son. My only son. Agreeing to send me to a nursing home to get my house.

“I see,” I said, and my voice came out calmer than I expected. “So you want me to leave my house so you two can stay here?”

“It’s not like that, Eleanor,” Linda interjected. “It’s for your own good.”

“For my own good,” I repeated. “Sending me to a nursing home is for my own good.”

“It’s a community, not a nursing home,” Chloe corrected quickly. “And yes, we think you’d be better off there.”

I nodded slowly.

I folded my napkin and placed it on the table.

Then I stood up.

“Where are you going?” Adrien asked.

“To answer the door,” I said. “Someone is here.”

“Who?” Chloe asked, frowning.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

I walked to the door and opened it.

There stood Mr. Hayes, briefcase in hand, a serious expression on his face.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lopez,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hayes,” I replied. “Please, come in.”

Mr. Hayes entered the house and walked behind me toward the dining room.

Chloe, Linda, and Adrien looked at us, confused.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

There were no more smiles.

Just tension.

“Who is this?” Chloe asked, standing up.

“Family,” I said, my voice clear, “I’d like to introduce Mr. Hugo Hayes. He is my lawyer.”

I saw the color drain from Chloe’s face.

Linda sat frozen in her chair.

Adrien stared at me, wide-eyed, trying to process what I had just said.

“Your lawyer?” he repeated. “Why do you need a lawyer, Mom?”

“To protect what’s mine,” I replied. “Please, everyone, sit down. Mr. Hayes has something to deliver to you.”

No one moved.

Mr. Hayes opened his briefcase and took out three white envelopes.

He placed them on the table.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a professional tone. “My name is Hugo Hayes and I am the legal representative of Mrs. Eleanor Lopez. I am here today to deliver an official notification.”

“Notification of what?” Linda asked, her voice no longer sounding so confident.

Mr. Hayes opened the first envelope and began to read.

“By means of this letter, notice is hereby given to Mrs. Chloe Torres and Mrs. Linda Torres that they have a period of thirty calendar days, beginning today, to vacate the property located at 847 Maple Drive, which is the sole and exclusive property of Mrs. Eleanor Lopez, according to public deed number 2,456 of the public property registry. Mrs. Lopez, in her right as the owner, has decided to revoke permission for the aforementioned individuals to reside in her home.”

“Wait, what? Vacate?” Chloe interrupted.

“Allow me to finish,” Mr. Hayes said calmly.

Linda jumped from her chair.

“She can’t do that!” Linda shouted. “My daughter is married to Adrien. This is their house.”

“No, ma’am,” Mr. Hayes replied, still calm. “This house is the property of Mrs. Eleanor Lopez. Your daughter and her husband have lived here by the owner’s goodwill, but that goodwill can be revoked at any time.”

Chloe turned to me, her eyes filled with rage.

“How could you do this to us?” she cried. “We’re your family.”

“Family?” I repeated, feeling my voice break just a little. “You wanted to send me to a nursing home to take my house. That’s family?”

“But the house was going to be Adrien’s,” Chloe insisted. “You said so.”

“It was going to be,” I said. “Someday. When I decided. But you couldn’t wait. You wanted to kick me out ahead of time. You wanted to erase me from my own life.”

Adrien was in shock, staring at the papers on the table as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Mom, are you really doing this?” he asked.

“Yes, Adrien,” I said quietly. “I really am.”