The guilt vanished.
“Proceed with everything, Gregory. I want them to pay for every last cent.”
“I will. I also want to recommend something. Update your will. Now. Make everything crystal clear and specific.”
“It’s all already in the name of the Retired Nurses Foundation.”
“I know, but let’s add stronger clauses specifying that no family member can contest the will, that any attempt to do so will result in automatic disqualification. There are legal ways to armor-plate your wishes.”
“Do it. Whatever it takes.”
I hung up and went out to the deck. The sea was calm, glittering under the Sunday morning.
For the first time in days, I allowed myself to just be there, breathing, existing without tension.
My phone rang. An unknown number.
I hesitated, but answered.
“Olga?”
It was a woman’s voice, older, with an accent similar to mine, but rougher.
“Who’s speaking?”
“It’s Gloria, Khloe’s mom.”
My body tensed immediately.
“How did you get my number?”
“That doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you woman to woman, mother to mother.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“Please, just hear me out for one minute.”
Her voice sounded tired, weak.
“I know what happened. I know Matthew and Chloe made mistakes, but I had nothing to do with that. I’m just a sick woman who dreamed of living her last years by the sea.”
“I’m sorry for your situation, but that’s not my responsibility.”
“I’m 73 years old. Heart problems. Asthma. The doctors say the city air is killing me. When Chloe told me they had gotten a house on the beach, I thought it was a miracle. I sold my few things. I told my friends I was moving. And now—”
“And now you have to face the fact that your daughter lied to you. That she promised you something that was never hers to give.”
“You are very cruel.”
“No, Gloria. I’m realistic. And I’m tired of people asking me to sacrifice myself for problems they created.”
“Someday you’re going to be old, sick, in need, and then you’ll understand.”
“I am already old, Gloria. I’m already at the age where illnesses arrive unannounced. But the difference is, I worked my whole life so I could take care of myself. So I wouldn’t have to depend on anyone or ask anyone to give me what isn’t theirs.”
I hung up before she could reply.
My hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from rage.
How dare Gloria call me. Try to make me feel guilty for not giving away my life savings.
The phone rang again. The same number. I didn’t answer. It rang five more times over the next hour.
Then the calls stopped, but the texts began. Gloria, Chloe, even numbers I didn’t recognize. All with the same tone.
Accusations of cruelty, of coldness, of selfishness. Long dramatic messages about broken families, shattered dreams, sick old women without a home.
I blocked every number, each one, without reading the full messages, without responding.
That night, as I ate dinner alone on the deck watching the sunset, my phone vibrated with a notification.
Facebook.
I had been tagged in a post.
It was from Chloe.
I opened it.
It was a photo of Gloria sitting in what looked like a hospital bed, wearing an oxygen mask. The text read, “My mother is hospitalized with an asthma attack. All from the stress of losing the home we promised her thanks to the cruelty of certain people who only think of themselves. Money and property won’t keep you company when you’re all alone.”
It already had 50 comments, mostly from people I didn’t know, Khloe’s friends, expressing outrage, offering support, cursing the heartless woman.
I stared at the post for long minutes. Part of me wanted to respond, to defend my side, to explain everything.
But then I remembered something a colleague from the hospital once told me:
“The people who need to create public drama are the ones who have no valid private arguments.”
I closed the app without commenting, without liking, without sharing, without responding.
Absolute silence.
Because I knew something Khloe didn’t understand yet.
The truth doesn’t need to scream to be heard. It just needs time and patience. And I had both.
On Monday at 9:00 sharp, the inspector arrived. He was a man in his 40s, thin, with thick glasses and a tablet in his hand.
He introduced himself as Adrien, a state-certified civil engineer. He had a professional camera hanging from his neck and a tape measure on his belt.
“Good morning, Mrs. Olga. I’m here for the damage assessment.”
I let him in.
I watched as he went through each room with almost obsessive meticulousness. He took photos from multiple angles. He measured every hole in the walls. He checked the exposed electrical wires. He took nonstop notes on his tablet.
He spent the most time in the kitchen. He ran his fingers along the edges where the cabinets had been ripped out. He inspected the water and gas connections left exposed. He took out a moisture meter and ran it along the walls.
“There’s structural damage here,” he said, pointing to a corner. “When they removed the cabinets, they damaged the waterproofing. There’s already moisture seeping in. This will require specialized work.”
“How serious is it?”
“If it’s not treated soon, in 6 months you’ll have mold all over this wall. And repairing mold is three times more expensive than preventing the seepage.”
He continued to the master bedroom.
The damage there was even more obvious. The walls were not only half painted, but they had removed parts of the drywall to modernize according to Matthew’s plans. Now, there were areas where you could see the bare, vulnerable, porous brick.
“Do you have the original invoices for the materials you installed?” Adrien asked.
“Yes, I have everything filed.”
“Perfect. That will help me calculate the exact replacement cost.”
We spent three full hours on the inspection.
When he finished, Adrien sat with me at the dining room table and opened a document on his tablet.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mrs. Olga. The damage is considerable. It’s not just a matter of reinstalling what they took out. There is structural damage that needs to be repaired first. Moisture seepage, dangerously manipulated electrical connections, gas pipes installed that violate building codes.”
“Give me a number.”
“$32,000. That’s my conservative estimate to repair everything to its original state.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.
$32,000.
More than double what Gregory had estimated.
“Are you sure?”
“Completely. And that’s not counting the cost of additional inspections the county will require now that structural damage has been documented. It could easily go up to $35,000.”
I leaned back in my chair.
$35,000.
Matthew could never pay that. He worked in sales. He made decent money, but lived on the edge, always spending more than he had. This would ruin him financially for years.
“I’m going to send the full report to your lawyer today,” Adrienne continued, with all the photographs, measurements, and the cost breakdown. “If you’re going to proceed legally, this is solid evidence.”
After he left, I called Gregory.