“They’d like to see it again tomorrow if that works for you. And Inz, they don’t want to change a thing about it. They love the original woodwork, the stained glass, everything.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
Robert had spent years restoring the house’s Victorian details, lovingly stripping paint from banisters and repairing cracked stained glass.
The thought of new owners who would appreciate his work eased some of the pain of letting go.
“Tomorrow afternoon would be perfect,” I told her. “Stuart never visits on Wednesdays.”
After hanging up, I sat at my kitchen table, sipping tea and thinking about what to do next.
I needed somewhere to go, somewhere Stuart wouldn’t immediately think to look for me.
I picked up my address book and flipped to the R section.
Rose Tillman, my college roommate who now lived in a retirement community in Florida.
We’d kept in touch over the years with Christmas cards and occasional phone calls.
I hadn’t seen her in person since Robert’s funeral, but she’d called a few months ago, mentioning she had a spare bedroom if I ever wanted to visit.
Before I could overthink it, I dialed her number.
“Rose, it’s Inz Morrison.”
“Inz, what a wonderful surprise. How are you, dear?”
I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal.
“I’m… I need a change, Rose. I remember you mentioned having a spare room.”
“Say no more,” Rose interrupted warmly. “The room is yours for as long as you want it. Sunshine Village is a lovely place. You’ll fit right in. When can I expect you?”
“How about 3 weeks from now? I need to tie up some loose ends here first.”
After we hung up, I made a list of everything I needed to do: contact a moving company for the items I wanted to keep, decide what to donate, forward my mail to a P.O. box, transfer my banking relationships to national institutions I could access from anywhere.
I also needed to contact my attorney to update my will.
The house Stuart and Jennifer coveted so much would soon be sold, and I had no intention of leaving them the proceeds.
The next day, the Hendersons returned to view the house.
They were a lovely couple in their 40s with two teenage children.
As they walked through the rooms, admiring the craftsmanship and asking thoughtful questions about the house’s history, I felt increasingly confident about my decision.
“We can close in 2 weeks if that works for you,” Mr. Henderson said as they prepared to leave. “Our lease is up at the end of the month and we’re eager to move in.”
“2 weeks would be perfect,” I replied, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded.
That evening, Stuart called.
“Mom, Jennifer and I are coming over for dinner on Sunday. There’s something important we want to discuss with you.”
I could imagine what that important discussion would entail.
Cedar Grove, no doubt, with brochures and gentle coercion.
“That sounds lovely,” I said, injecting warmth into my voice. “I’ll make your favorite pot roast.”
“Great. And Mom, maybe don’t mention it to the kids yet. This is more of an adult conversation.”
Of course it was.
They wouldn’t want my grandchildren to witness them trying to convince me I was too incompetent to live independently.
After hanging up, I called the moving company and scheduled them to come the day after my closing.
Then I contacted the local women’s shelter to donate most of my furniture.
Finally, I made an appointment with my bank to close my local accounts the day before I planned to leave town.
Each step I took made my plan more real, more irreversible.
Sometimes in the quiet evenings, doubt would creep in.
Was I overreacting?
Was I being unfair to Stuart?
But then I’d remember the turkey sliding down my blouse, the humiliation burning in my chest as everyone sat in silence.
I’d recall Stuart and Jennifer’s cold calculation as they planned to sell my home out from under me.
No, I wasn’t overreacting.
I was finally standing up for myself.
Sunday arrived, and with it Stuart and Jennifer.
They brought a bottle of wine and forced smiles.
I served the promised pot roast, making small talk about the weather and Jennifer’s garden club activities.
As we finished dessert, apple pie that Stuart barely touched, he cleared his throat.