“Because unlike you, I do read the papers that are in my own house.”
Kloe intervened then. Her voice had lost all its sweetness.
“Olga, don’t be so dramatic. We just want to improve the house. Make it more modern, more livable. When Gloria and my dad move in, they’re going to need comforts.”
“No one is moving in here.”
“That’s not for you to decide alone.”
“Yes, it is. It’s my house.”
Chloe slammed the mug down on the table.
“You are incredibly selfish. You have two properties and you refuse to share one. Gloria is older than you. She has health problems and she deserves to live in a decent place.”
“Then you buy a house for Gloria.”
“We can’t afford a house on the beach. Not all of us were lucky enough to get properties when they were cheap.”
“It wasn’t luck. It was work. 40 years of work.”
I turned and went up the stairs. I could hear them talking downstairs, their voices rising, arguing about what to do now, about how to convince me.
I didn’t care.
I went into the small room. I locked the door. I sat on the bed and looked at the ceiling.
Tomorrow at 6:00 in the morning, everything would change.
And for the first time in a long time, I was going to be the one in control of that change.
The rest of Friday passed in a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Matthew and Khloe spoke in low voices whenever I appeared.
The workers arrived at 10:00 in the morning, and Kloe had to tell them to wait, that there was a small problem with the permits. The men stood outside, smoking, looking at their phones, getting paid by the hour to do nothing.
I stayed in my room almost all day. I read, or at least I tried to. The words blurred on the page. My mind was elsewhere, going over every detail of what was to come.
Gregory had sent me a text confirming everything. The process servers would arrive at exactly 6 in the morning on Saturday. They would bring the eviction order, the cease and desist for the construction, and the complaint documents, all legal, all irreversible.
At 3:00 in the afternoon, I heard a knock on my door. It was Matthew.
“Mom, can we talk?”
It wasn’t a question.
I opened the door. He came in and sat on the only chair in the room, an old wooden chair that used to be in the garage. He looked tired. He had dark circles under his eyes.
“I know you’re upset,” he began. “And I get it. We should have consulted you before starting the work. That was a mistake.”
I stayed standing, leaning against the wall, waiting.
“But you have to understand our situation. Chloe and I have been living in that small apartment for years. We can’t have kids there. There’s no space. And Gloria really is in poor health. The doctors say the sea air would help her respiratory problems. We thought it would be perfect, that everyone would win.”
“Everyone wins when I’m locked in a 9-by-9 room?” I asked.
“It wouldn’t be forever, just until you got used to it. Then we could make a schedule, take turns. You come some months, we come other months.”
“It’s my house, Matthew. There don’t have to be turns.”
“But it’ll be mine someday, right? When you’re gone, this house is going to be my inheritance. Why not start enjoying it now?”
Those words hung in the air.
When I’m gone.
As if he was just waiting for me to die so he could take what was mine. As if my life was just an obstacle between him and his plans.
“Get out of my room,” I said quietly.
“Mom, just be reasonable.”
“Get out now.”
He stood up. There was something in his eyes, something between frustration and contempt. He left without closing the door.
I closed it behind him and locked it again.
I barely ate dinner that night. I went down at 8, made some tea, and went back up. From my window, I could see Matthew’s truck parked. The lights in the house were still on. I heard their voices, muffled, constant, planning, always planning.
I went to bed early, but I couldn’t sleep. I checked the clock every hour. 11 at night. 12. 1 in the morning. 2.
At 3, I finally fell into a restless sleep filled with confusing images. My husband. The house when I first bought it, empty and full of possibilities. Matthew as a child, before he became this.
I woke up at 5:30, half an hour before the officers were due to arrive.
I dressed with care. Black pants. Gray blouse. The sweater my sister gave me two Christmases ago. I brushed my hair. I looked at myself in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me was 71 years old. Wrinkles around her eyes, age spots on her hands. But she also had something else.
Determination. Strength. Dignity.
I went downstairs.
The house was dark and silent. I made myself a coffee in the provisional coffee maker they had set up. I sat in the olive green armchair and waited.
At 6:00 sharp, I heard the vehicles.
Two SUVs parked in front of the house. I saw the lights through the window. Four people got out. Two uniformed process servers and two witnesses, as required by law. They were carrying clipboards, cameras, electronic tablets.
I opened the door before they knocked.
“Good morning. I was expecting you.”
The senior officer, a man in his 50s with a gray mustache, nodded.
“You are Mrs. Olga, the owner of this residence?”
“Yes.”
“We have legal documents that must be served to a Mr. Matthew and a Miss Chloe. Are they on the property?”
“They’re sleeping upstairs.”
“I need you to wake them, please. The notification must be done in person.”
I went up the stairs. My heart was beating fast, but my steps were firm.
I reached the guest room where they were sleeping. I knocked on the door once, twice, three times.
“What is it?” Matthew’s voice was groggy, half asleep.
“I need you to come downstairs. There are people here who need to talk to you.”
“What? What time is it?”
“6:00 in the morning. Get down here now.”
I heard movement inside. Murmurs. Chloe asking what was happening.
I waited upstairs until they came out, both in pajamas, hair disheveled, with expressions of confusion and annoyance.
We went downstairs together.
When Matthew saw the officers in the living room, he stopped cold.
“What is this?”
The officer stepped forward.
“Are you Matthew, son of Mrs. Olga?”
“Yes, but—”
“I have an eviction order issued by the civil court. You and anyone under your responsibility have 48 hours to vacate this property. Here is the official documentation.”
He handed him a thick envelope. Matthew took it with trembling hands. He opened it. He started to read.
His face went from confusion to disbelief and finally to rage.
“This is insane. Mom, what did you do?”
“I’m protecting what’s mine.”
“I’m your son, and this is my house.”
“A house you decided to destroy without my permission.”