Margaret looked at me seriously, but he’s acting like he does.
We spent the rest of the morning in the nursing home’s small library, where Margaret explained things I’d never thought about. property rights, tenant law. The difference between guardianship and power of attorney.
The bottom line, she said, is that your house is still your house.
Your son is essentially squatting in it and illegally subleting rooms.
But what can I do? I’m stuck in here.
Margaret’s eyes gleamed.
Oh, honey, you’re not stuck anywhere. You chose to come here because your son told you to, but you can choose to leave anytime you want.
Leave.
The idea had never occurred to me, but Randall said.
Randall said a lot of things, none of them legally binding.
Margaret leaned forward.
Bula, you’re not here by court order. You’re not here because a doctor declared you incompetent. You’re here because your son convinced you it was necessary. Well, now you know it wasn’t.
That afternoon, Margaret helped me make a phone call to Mrs. Patterson, my neighbor. I hadn’t spoken to her since I’d been moved to Sunset Manor, and I was nervous about what she might tell me.
Pula, Mrs. Patterson’s voice was warm but concerned. I was wondering when I’d hear from you. How are you settling in at that place?
I’m fine, Mrs. Patterson. But I wanted to ask you about something.
Have you noticed anything unusual at my house?
There was a pause.
Well, there’s been a lot of activity over there. Your son and his wife moved in, of course, but then there were other people, too. Strangers coming and going. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything.
My hands were shaking as I held the phone.
What kind of strangers?
Young people, mostly. College age. They’ve been carrying boxes and furniture into the house, and that dog of theirs barks all night. I’ve had to close my bedroom windows because of the noise.
Margaret was taking notes, her expression growing darker by the minute.
Mrs. Patterson, I said carefully. Did Randall ever mention that I might be coming back home?
Coming back? Oh, no, dear. He told me you’d decided to move permanently into assisted living. Said you were much happier there and didn’t want to deal with the house anymore.
After I hung up, I sat in stunned silence.
Margaret reached over and squeezed my hand.
I’m sorry, Bula. I know this is hard to hear.
He told her I was happy here, that I didn’t want to deal with my own house anymore.
He’s been telling a lot of people a lot of things.
Apparently, Margaret showed me her notes. Based on what your neighbor said, it sounds like he’s renting rooms to multiple tenants.
At $2,000 each, if he’s got three or four renters, he could be making $6 to $8,000 a month.
The numbers made my head spin.
From my house.
From your house. While you’re paying 3,000 a month to stay here.
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
Margaret, I can’t afford to stay here much longer. I’ve been using my savings, but at 3,000 a month.
How much do you have left?
Maybe enough for two more months.
Margaret was quiet for a long moment. Then she asked, “Bula, what did you think would happen when your money ran out?”
I’d been trying not to think about that. I assumed Randall would help. Or maybe I’d have to apply for Medicaid.
And where did you think you’d live if you couldn’t afford this place?
The truth hit me like a physical blow.
I’d never considered that Randall might not take me back. In my mind, the nursing home was temporary, just until I got used to the idea of needing help.
But if he was making thousands of dollars renting out my house, why would he want his mother back?
He never intended for me to come home, I whispered.
Margaret nodded grimly. “I don’t think he did.”
That evening, as we sat in our room after dinner, Margaret pulled out a legal pad and began writing.
“What are you doing?” I asked.