“On my house?”
“It could increase the property value.”
“You invited strangers onto my property without asking me.”
Her expression became almost patient.
“We didn’t think you’d mind.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“We’re family.”
Family.
It had become her all-access pass.
Then one afternoon, I found boxes from Harold’s study stacked in the garage.
His books.
His photographs.
A little wooden organizer he’d made himself.
Things that had stayed exactly where I’d wanted them since he died.
Victoria had cleared the room because Daniel “needed a home office.”
That night, I called Patricia.
She had handled Harold’s and my legal affairs for more than twenty years.
She didn’t tell me I was overreacting.
She simply asked, “Whose name controls the property?”
“Mine. Through the family trust.”
“Is Daniel a trustee?”
“No.”
“Does he have ownership authority while you’re alive?”
“No.”
“Did they sign anything when they moved in?”
Then I remembered the residency agreement my financial planner had insisted on.
I’d felt ridiculous asking my own son to sign it.
But he had.
So had Victoria.
The next afternoon, Patricia and I went through everything.
The deed.
The trust.
The residency agreement.
Property records.
Bank transfers.
The documents from 2019, when I’d sent Daniel $84,000 in three installments to keep his failing business afloat.
Patricia copied everything and put tabs on the important pages.
Then she looked at me over her glasses.
“Whatever Victoria thinks she’s doing, Eleanor, she doesn’t understand your legal position.”
I put that folder into the fireproof box.
Then I waited.
Two months later, Victoria handed me the eviction notice.
That evening, I opened Patricia’s folder on my bed.
Page one: the deed.
Page three: the trust provisions.
Page five: the residency agreement.
Daniel’s signature.
Victoria’s signature.
Plain English.
They were residents by permission.
They had no ownership interest.
Their permission to remain could be terminated according to the agreement.
Then I looked through the financial records.
Victoria liked saying Daniel had “contributed” to the household.
Numbers told a different story.
They had paid no rent in nine months.
I covered the utilities.
I bought groceries more often than I should have.
I’d paid two vehicle repair bills during their transition.
And years before that, there was the $84,000 I’d transferred to help Daniel’s business.
The money had traveled in one direction.
Mine to theirs.
Not theirs to mine.
I closed the folder and looked through my bedroom window toward Harold’s dogwood tree.