“What did he say?”
“That I’ll end up alone if I don’t apologize to them.”
Dorothy snorted.
“That boy. I swear I don’t know what happened to him. He used to be such a sweet kid.”
“Esme happened to him.”
“Don’t give her all the credit. He’s a grown man, Belinda. He makes his own choices.”
She was right.
I’d been blaming Esme for everything.
But Elliot was 32 years old.
Old enough to stand up to his wife if he wanted to. Old enough to protect his mother.
He’d chosen not to.
That hurt worse than anything Esme had said or done.
On day five, Dorothy came home from her book club with interesting news.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into at the grocery store afterward.”
“Who?”
“Helen Morrison, your old neighbor from Riverside Avenue.”
My stomach tightened.
Helen lived three houses down from what used to be my house. A sweet woman in her 70s who’d always been friendly. Always waved when she saw me in the yard.
“What did she say?”
Dorothy poured herself a glass of iced tea, taking her time.
She was enjoying this, and part of me didn’t blame her. After years of watching me make excuses for Elliot and Esme, she finally got to be right.
“She said there’s been a lot of activity at your house. Trucks coming and going, contractors.”
“Looks like contractors?”
“Mhm. She said it looks like they’re doing renovations. New windows going in. She thinks maybe new siding.”
I felt my jaw clench.
“They’re renovating. With what money?”
“That’s what I wondered. But Helen said Esme was outside yesterday supervising, talking about how they’re finally making the house their own. Apparently, she was quite chatty about it.”
Making it their own.
My house.
The house I’d worked 13 years to pay off.
They were already treating it like it belonged to them completely.
“Did Helen ask where I was?”
“She did. I told her you were visiting family. Figured that was easier than explaining the whole mess.”
“Thanks.”
“But Belinda, here’s the thing. If they’re putting money into renovations, they clearly think they’ve won. They think you’re just going to fade away.”
I thought about that. About Esme picking out new windows, probably expensive ones. About them making plans, making changes, erasing any trace that I’d ever lived there.
“They’re going to be surprised then,” I said quietly.
Day six brought a text from Esme, the first direct communication I’d had from her since that night.
“Belinda, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t you come by for coffee? Let’s talk this through like family.”
I showed it to Dorothy.
“It’s a trap,” she said immediately.
“I know.”
“She wants you to come over so she can manipulate you, get you to sign something, probably.”
“I know that, too.”
“So, you’re not going.”
“I’m not going.”
I didn’t respond to the text.
An hour later, another one came through.
“Belinda, please. Elliot is really torn up about this. You’re his mother. He loves you. We both do. Let’s fix this.”
I almost laughed.
They loved me so much they’d locked me out and told me to go to a nursing home.
That was quite a love.
Still, I didn’t respond.
Day seven, Margaret called.
“Belinda, I need to prepare you for something. I got a call from opposing council.”
My heart sank.
“They hired a lawyer.”
“They did. Daniel Reeves. He’s… Well, he’s expensive, which means they’re taking this seriously.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“It means they’re not going to roll over. Reeves is already arguing that you abandoned the property by leaving voluntarily, that you gave verbal permission for them to change the locks, and that you’re now trying to stage a hostile takeover of your son’s home.”
“That’s not true. None of that is true.”
“I know, Belinda, and we have evidence to prove it. The deed, the text messages from Esme about the storage unit. Helen Morrison has agreed to give a statement about what happened. We have a solid case, but I need you to understand this is going to get nastier before it gets better.”
“How much nastier?”
Margaret sighed.
“Reeves is known for going after his opponent’s character. He’s going to paint you as a bitter, unstable woman who can’t accept that her son has moved on. He’ll probably bring up every argument you and Esme ever had. Every time you complained about anything, he’s going to try to make you look like the villain.”
I thought about all the times I’d bitten my tongue. All the times I’d swallowed my hurt feelings, my anger, my sense of being treated unfairly.
All so I wouldn’t rock the boat. Wouldn’t cause problems.
And now they were going to twist that into me being the problem all along.
“Let him try,” I said. “The truth is the truth.”
“Good. That’s the attitude we need. Now I need you to do something for me. I need you to write down every financial contribution you’ve made to that household over the last four years. Every grocery bill you paid, every utility payment, every repair you funded, everything. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I kept records. I always kept records.”
“Perfect. Because we’re not just fighting to get you back into your house, Belinda. We’re going to make sure they understand exactly what they’ve thrown away.”
After I hung up, I got out my old checkbook registers and bank statements.
I’d always been meticulous about money. You had to be when you grew up poor like I did.
Every expense was tracked. Every payment noted.
I started adding it up.
Groceries, roughly $300 a month for 4 years, $14,400.
Utilities, I’d paid the electric bill entirely, about $200 a month, $9,600.
Property taxes, I’d paid those, too, because the house was in my name. About $4,000 a year, $16,000 total.
Then there were the repairs.
The new water heater when the old one died, $1,800.
The roof repair after the storm, $3,200.
The fence I’d replaced because Esme wanted privacy, $4,500.
I kept adding and adding.
By the time I was done, I’d contributed over $73,000 to that household in four years, not including the original $48,000 I’d given them for the down payment.
$121,000.
I’d given my son and his wife $121,000 over the course of their marriage, and they’d repay me by throwing me out like garbage.
I stared at that number for a long time.
I’d known I’d been contributing, of course, but seeing it all laid out, all added up, it was staggering.
Dorothy came home and found me at her kitchen table, surrounded by papers.
“What’s all this?”
“Evidence,” I said. “Evidence that I wasn’t just some freeloader taking up space. I was funding their entire lifestyle.”