The cease and desist letter would be served to Randall the next day, demanding that he vacate my property within 30 days.
What if he refuses? I asked.
Then we’ll file for an unlawful detainer action, David explained. Essentially, we’ll have him evicted from your house.
Can we do that? Even though he’s my son?
Mrs. Henderson, the law doesn’t care about family relationships when it comes to property rights. Your house is your house. Period.
That evening, Margaret helped me pack the few belongings I’d brought to Sunset Manor. It wasn’t much, mostly clothes and a few personal items that Randall and Nola had deemed essential.
“Where’s your jewelry?” Margaret asked, noticing that I was only packing a simple watch and my wedding ring.
I don’t know. I asked Nola about my jewelry box and she said they’d put it somewhere safe.
Margaret’s jaw tightened.
We’ll add that to the list of things we’re recovering.
As I folded my clothes, I found myself thinking about all the things I’d lost. Not just the valuable items, but the sentimental ones.
The photo albums chronicling Randall’s childhood. My mother’s china set. The quilt my grandmother had made. Robert’s tools in the garage.
Margaret, I said quietly. What if they’ve sold things or thrown them away?
Then they’ll replace them or compensate you for them, she said firmly.
Bula, your son committed theft. Just because he’s family doesn’t make it legal.
I’d never thought of it that way before. In my mind, family disagreements were just that, disagreements.
But Margaret was right.
Randall had taken my house, my belongings, my life without my permission. That wasn’t a family dispute. That was theft.
The next morning, I checked myself out of Sunset Manor.
The staff seemed surprised, but didn’t try to stop me. After all, I wasn’t there involuntarily.
Margaret came with me, having decided that her own son’s nursing home plans could wait while she helped me reclaim my life.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we climbed into David’s car with our suitcases.
To a hotel, Margaret said. “Just for a few days until we can get you back into your house.”
“A hotel? I can’t afford that.”
“You can afford it better than you can afford to stay in that nursing home,” Margaret pointed out. “Besides, David knows a place that gives senior discounts.”
As we drove away from Sunset Manor, I realized something.
For the first time in a month, I felt like myself again. Not like a burden, not like someone who needed to be managed or taken care of, just like Bula Henderson, a woman who owned a house and had every right to live in it.
My phone rang as we pulled into the hotel parking lot.
I looked at the caller ID and felt my stomach clench.
Randall.
He got the letter, Margaret said with satisfaction.
Answer it. Let’s hear what he has to say now.
I stared at my phone as it rang. Randall’s name flashing on the screen.
My hands were shaking, but Margaret nodded encouragingly.
Answer it, she whispered. You have the power now.
I pressed the accept button with a trembling finger.
Hello, Randall.
Mom, what the hell is this?
His voice was furious. Nothing like the calm, reasonable tone he’d used when he’d put me in the nursing home.
Some lawyer just served me papers saying I have to get out of your house. This is insane.
It’s my house, Randall. I never gave you permission to rent it out.
You’re in a nursing home. You don’t need the house anymore.
I’m not in a nursing home anymore. I checked myself out this morning.
There was a long silence.
When he spoke again, his voice was different. Panicked.
Mom, you can’t just leave like that. You need supervision. You could hurt yourself.
I’ve been taking care of myself for 70 years. Randall, I think I can manage.
Where are you staying? You can’t go back to the house. There are there are people living there now.