George noticed it, too.
“That woman has claws,” he’d said after one particularly tense Christmas dinner where Violet had corrected nearly everything I said. But he always advocated for peace.
“She’s Thomas’s choice, Ellie. We have to respect that.”
The situation worsened when George was diagnosed with heart disease 3 years ago. Violet started suggesting I couldn’t properly care for him.
“It might be too much responsibility for someone your age,” she told me, as if I hadn’t been caring for my husband for over four decades.
She even tried to convince Thomas that we should sell our house and move into an assisted living facility.
“For both your parents’ safety,” she’d insisted.
George had put his foot down.
“Then ing the house I built, not some sterile facility,” he’d told Thomas firmly.
“For once, our son had backed us up.”
Now, standing in my kitchen with Violet, suggesting I should leave my home just one day after burying my husband, I felt a surge of anger I rarely allowed myself to express.
“This is my home, Violet,” I said quietly. “George and I built it together. I’m not going anywhere.”
She sighed as if I were being difficult.
“Ellen, be realistic. You’re 70 years old. This house has stairs. The maintenance alone?”
“I said no.”
My tone was sharper than I’d intended, but I was done being pushed around. A flash of something, annoyance, hatred, crossed Violet’s face before she composed herself.
“Well, we can discuss it after the will reading. Things might be clearer.”
Then the will reading.
Of course, that’s what this was about.
Violet assumed George had left everything to Thomas, which would effectively give her control. She’d been circling like a vulture, waiting to swoop in and take what was mine.
What she didn’t know was that 6 months ago, George had asked me to drive him to his lawyer’s office.
He’d been unusually quiet that day.
“What are we doing here, George?” I’d asked as we parked.
“Making sure you’re taken care of, Ellie.” He’d squeezed my hand. “No matter what happens.”
I hadn’t thought much about it then. George had always been methodical about our affairs, but now his words took on new meaning.
As Violet strutdded out of the kitchen, phone already in hand, I remembered something else George had said to me in his final weeks.
“You’ve always been too kind, Ellie,” he’d told me, his voice weak, but his eyes clear. “Sometimes kindness needs to be protected.”
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight times.
In four hours, we would all gather at Mr. Peterson’s law office for the reading of George’s will.
Violet was in for a surprise.
I ran my hand along the smooth kitchen counter that George and I had selected together after saving for years. This house wasn’t just walls and a roof.
It was the physical manifestation of our love story.
Every scratch, every repair, every upgrade reflected our journey together.
As I sipped my coffee, I heard Thomas coming down the stairs. He entered the kitchen with the hesitant step of someone who doesn’t know what to say.
“Morning, Mom,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes.
“Good morning, son,” I replied, pushing a mug toward him. “Coffee?”
He nodded, taking the mug.
“Mom, about the funeral yesterday. I’m sorry about the seating thing. Violet just thought—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear whatever excuse he’d rehearsed. “We all grieve differently.”
Thomas looked relieved that I wasn’t going to make it an issue.
That had always been his way, avoiding conflict at all costs, even if it meant letting Violet run roughshot over his mother.
“About the house,” he started again.
I held up my hand. “Let’s wait for the will reading before we discuss any changes, shall we?”
He looked surprised but nodded.
From upstairs, Violet called his name, and like a trained puppy, he immediately set down his barely touched coffee and went to her.
I watched him go, my heart heavy.