From there, I could monitor the cameras on my laptop while staying close enough to return quickly when the time came.
Nova’s family would arrive in a few hours, ready to celebrate their victory over the foolish old woman who’d let them steal her dream home.
They had no idea the show was just beginning.
I watched from my hotel room as the caravan of vehicles pulled into my driveway at exactly 3:30 Friday afternoon.
Four SUVs and a massive RV that barely fit in the space.
Nova had apparently brought her entire extended family, just as promised.
Through the laptop screen connected to my security cameras, I could see Nova step out of the lead vehicle like a conquering queen surveying her new domain.
She was perfectly dressed in white linen pants and a flowing blue top that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
Behind her came Randall, looking uncomfortable but obedient, and then a parade of relatives I’d never met.
I recognized Patricia, Nova’s mother, from her Facebook photos, a stern-faced woman in her 70s who moved with the imperious air of someone accustomed to getting her way.
There were teenagers with their phones already out, taking selfies in front of my roses.
There were adults hauling coolers and suitcases like they were moving in permanently, which I realized with a sick feeling they probably were.
I watched Nova produce a key from her purse.
My spare key, the one I’d given Randall years ago for emergencies.
She opened my front door and gestured grandly for everyone to enter my house.
“Welcome to paradise.”
I heard her voice clearly through the audio system Margaret’s security team had installed.
“Isn’t this place gorgeous? And Patricia, wait until you see the master bedroom. The ocean view is incredible.”
The master bedroom.
My bedroom.
Where I’d spent peaceful mornings watching the sunrise over the water, where I’d planned to grow old, surrounded by my books and memories, and Whiskers purring on the windowsill.
I watched Patricia walk through my living room, running her fingers over my furniture, examining my art like she was appraising it for auction.
“This is lovely, dear. Much better than that cramped apartment your mother-in-law will be moving to.”
“Oh, she’s not moving to an apartment.”
Nova laughed, settling onto my favorite chair.
The blue velvet armchair I’d saved 6 months to buy.
“We found this wonderful assisted living place. Very clean, very safe. She’ll have people to take care of her and activities to keep her busy. It’s really much better for someone her age.”
Someone her age.
I was 62, not 92.
Randall appeared on camera, looking around the house with an expression I couldn’t read.
Was it guilt, regret, or was he already calculating how much my furniture would bring at an estate sale?
“Where is Dorene?” Patricia asked. “I thought she’d be here to greet us.”
“Oh, she’s staying in the cottage out back,” Nova said airily. “We thought it would be less overwhelming for her. You know how elderly people can get anxious around crowds.”
Elderly people.
Crowds.
They were talking about me like I was a senile nursing home patient instead of a woman who’d been successfully managing trauma units until 3 months ago.
“Should we go say hello?” one of the younger relatives asked.
“Maybe later,” Nova said quickly. “She’s probably napping. Old people need lots of rest.”
Through the cameras, I watched them spread out through my house like an occupying army.
Teenagers claimed the guest bedrooms I decorated so carefully.
Adults opened my refrigerator and complained about the lack of beer.
Patricia settled into my sun room and announced that the wicker furniture would have to go. It was too casual for her taste.
But it was the conversation in my kitchen that made my blood boil.
Nova had gathered a small group around my breakfast table.
Patricia, Randall, and a woman I later learned was Nova’s sister, Diane.
They spoke in hushed tones, but the microphones caught every word.
“So, the plan is working perfectly,” Nova said, pulling papers from her oversized handbag. “I’ve already contacted three real estate agents. The market is hot right now. We should be able to get at least 400,000, maybe more, if we stage it right.”
400,000.
My house was worth at least 500,000, but they were already planning to undervalue it for a quick sale.
“What about Dorene?” Diane asked. “Won’t she object?”
Nova laughed.
Actually laughed.
“She’s already mentally checking out. Did you see how confused she sounded on the phone? Classic early dementia. Randall’s been documenting it for months, haven’t you, honey?”
My son nodded.
“She repeats herself a lot. Forgets conversations we’ve had. Last month, she called me three times in one day asking the same question.”