She’s been different since we got the notice. Paranoid. She keeps saying someone must hate us. That this is too calculated to be random.
Paranoid.
Not entirely wrong, though.
I wouldn’t call it hate.
Disappointment.
Maybe hurt that had festered for too long.
Have you looked at other apartments? I asked gently.
Mom, do you know how much decent places cost now? Everything in our budget is—
He gestured around my living room.
Well, it’s like this. Small, old, nothing like what Oilia is used to.
Nothing like this.
My home, where I’d raised him, where I’d worked two jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on his back, where I’d stayed up nights helping him with homework and nursing him through every childhood illness.
There’s nothing wrong with small and old, David. I’ve been happy here.
I know, Mom. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just Oilia has certain expectations.
Expectations like designer dresses and luxury apartments and Christmas dinners she didn’t have to pay for, like a mother-in-law who existed solely to fund her lifestyle while staying quietly in the background.
What did she say when you told her you might have to move somewhere smaller?
David was quiet for a long moment.
She said maybe it was time to consider putting you in assisted living.
The words hit me like ice water.
Excuse me.
She thinks your apartment building might be converted to condos soon and that you’d be happier somewhere with more support. Somewhere that wouldn’t be such a financial burden.
Financial burden.
I almost laughed.
I owned this building, too.
She’s already looked into some places. Nice places, Mom. With activities and meal plans. She says the monthly fee would probably be less than what you’re paying now in rent and groceries.
And what do you think about this idea?
I think—
He stopped, seeming to choose his words carefully.
I think Oilia’s scared about our financial situation, and she’s looking for solutions anywhere she can find them.
Solutions that involved removing me from my home and placing me somewhere I could be managed more easily, somewhere my presence wouldn’t remind them of their dependence.
David, look at me.
I waited until his eyes met mine.
I’m 69 years old, not 99. I drive myself to the grocery store. I manage my own finances, and I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions about where I live.
I know that, Mom. I told her you wouldn’t be interested.
Good, because I’m not going anywhere.
After David left, I sat in my living room as the afternoon light faded.
Assisted living.
They wanted to tuck me away somewhere convenient, somewhere I couldn’t accidentally overhear phone conversations or witness their true feelings about me.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found my lawyer’s number.
Robert Chen had been handling my business affairs for 10 years, and he’d never once questioned my decision to keep my real estate holdings private.
Robert, it’s Mabel Richardson. I need you to prepare some documents for me.
It was time for David and Oilia to learn that the tacky old lady they wanted to hide away was the only thing standing between them and homelessness.
The papers arrived on Friday, delivered by certified mail.
I watched from my window as David signed for the thick envelope, his face growing pale as he read the return address.
Chen and Associates, attorneys at law.