Martha.
And Martha had clocked out.
Two weeks before the deadline, the tactics changed.
Suddenly, Travis was overly friendly. He brought flowers and asked if he could help in the garden.
Brooke stayed in the background, but she started giving me short nods of greeting.
I knew they were planning something.
They probably hoped a charm offensive would make me drop the demands.
“Mom, we’ve been thinking,” Travis started one evening. “We’ll pay the rent, but can we skip the separate-meter thing? It’s so complicated.”
I looked at him.
“No, Travis. Transparency creates peace. That way, everyone knows exactly what they’re using.”
Then came the real pitch.
“Brooke’s mom suggested that maybe we should just take over the house now in exchange for a life estate. You’d have more cash, and we’d have security.”
I almost laughed.
They wanted the house they nearly let collapse in the storm to be officially theirs, just so they could finally push me aside.
“The house stays in my name until I die,” I said firmly. “And Mrs. Gable’s suggestions interest me about as much as last week’s rain.”
Brooke stepped out of the shadows.
“You’re so selfish. You’re sitting on this big house while we have to struggle.”
“It’s my house, Brooke. I worked for it while you didn’t even know how to hold a broom,” I shot back.
Just then, my phone rang.
It was an old friend, a real estate agent.
I had asked him to appraise the house—not to sell it, but to show them exactly what they were being gifted.
When I read the numbers out loud, the room went silent.
The market value had skyrocketed.
“You’re living here for a fraction of what a stranger would pay. Consider that my final gift. If that doesn’t work for you, the door is right there.”
They realized I wasn’t negotiating anymore.
I was dictating.
It was a Sunday, exactly three weeks after the storm.