Mary’s face flushed deep crimson. “What are you talking about? This has to be a mistake. The lawyer —”
“The lawyer was part of the plan,” I said, looking her dead in the eye.
“We knew this might happen. We hoped it wouldn’t. But we prepared for it.”
Mary’s jaw clenched. “You can’t just kick us out like this. What about the kids?!”
“You should’ve thought about the kids before you let them believe it was okay to push family aside for convenience,” I said. “I expect you out by tomorrow night.”
It took everything I had not to cry when I saw my grandchildren peek around the corner with confused eyes. Lily and Jamie, just seven and five — sweet kids who didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of adult mistakes. But I stood firm. This wasn’t about revenge. It was about dignity.
I spent that night at Lorna’s again, just to give them space. The next afternoon, I returned with my spare key and found the house eerily quiet. Their SUV was already gone; the bedrooms stripped of toys and posters, and the kitchen wiped clean. The only thing left behind was the faint citrus scent in the hallway.
I stood in the living room for a long time, unsure of how to feel. I’d won, I suppose. I was back in my home, my sanctuary. But it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like mourning.
Over the next few weeks, I settled back in. I repainted the gray walls back to soft yellow and opened every window to let in the autumn breeze. I replanted my herb garden and filled the pantry with tea and flour, and jars of homemade jam. I now live alone, but I have made peace with it.
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