“That car is a classic. It can’t sit on the street. Someone could hit it.”
“Then I suggest you find a storage unit,” I replied evenly. “Or better yet, find a house with a garage. You have 16 days left to move out.”
“Mom, you can’t lock me out of the garage. My tools are in there.”
“Your tools are in boxes by the side door. The garage is my property. Jason, you do not have an automatic right to my space.”
Sarah got out of the passenger side, looking exhausted.
“Jason, just leave it. Let’s just go inside.”
“No,” Jason snapped. “She’s treating us like criminals. Mom, open the garage right now.”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t stand up. I simply looked him in the eye.
“No.”
He stood there, chest heaving, waiting for the mother who always folded to give in.
When I just smiled and took another sip of my tea, he turned around and kicked the dirt in frustration. They walked into the house in silence.
The realization that they had absolutely no control over my actions was finally starting to sink in.
Jason was desperate to regain some leverage. He thought if he could prove I was struggling financially, he could guilt me into letting them stay. He always assumed the house was a burden for me to maintain alone.
On Thursday afternoon, I left my home office to water the plants in the sun room. I had left a folder on my desk, not by accident. I knew Jason had been snooping around trying to find the Wi-Fi router password.
When I walked back down the hallway, I saw the office door slightly a jar. I pushed it open.
Jason was standing at my desk holding a quarterly statement from my wealth management firm. His eyes were wide, darting back and forth across the page.
He looked up at me, his face pale.
“$5 million,” he whispered.
“Mom, you have $5 million in an investment trust. Since when?”
I walked over, smoothly, pulled the paper from his hands, and slipped it back into the folder.