I had given my new phone number only to my lawyer and Emily. I kept my old phone active, but I left it in the nightstand drawer, checking it only once a day for Faith’s messages.
They were predictable in their falseness.
“Mom, I stopped by your place today, but you weren’t there. Where are you?”
“Mom, I need to talk to you about what we discussed. When can I visit you?”
“Mom, I’m worried you’re not answering my calls. Are you okay?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I waited a few hours, sometimes an entire day, before sending short, vague replies.
“I’m fine, daughter. Busy with some personal matters.”
Nothing that gave her real information. Nothing that allowed her to track what I was really doing.
Two weeks passed, then three. Faith began to get impatient. Her messages became more insistent, more demanding.
“Mom, I need to see you. It’s urgent. We have to talk about your future.”
My future—as if she had any right to decide about it.
It was Grant who finally showed up at the house—or what had been my house. Claudio Martinez called me one afternoon, confused and slightly alarmed.
“Mrs. Thompson, there’s a man here who says he’s your son-in-law. He’s demanding to come in. He says he needs to pick up some of your things. I explained that the house is no longer yours, that we bought the property legally, but he insists there must be a mistake.”
“There is no mistake, Mr. Martinez. The house is completely yours now. My son-in-law has no right to it or to anything inside. If he continues to bother you, call the police.”
“Are you sure? He seems very upset.”
“Completely sure. Mr. Martinez, it is possible that in the coming weeks more people will appear making similar claims. Please do not let them in. All the sale documents are in order. You have nothing to worry about.”
I hung up and poured myself a cup of chamomile tea with perfectly steady hands.
So, they had finally found out.
I wondered how long it would take them to find me.
The answer was less than two hours.
My old phone began to ring nonstop—call after call from Faith, from Grant, even from unknown numbers that I assumed were friends or relatives they had recruited to their cause. I didn’t answer any. I just sat in my new armchair, sipping my tea, waiting.
The voicemails started piling up.
I listened to them that night, one by one, like someone listening to a particularly bad play.
“Mom, what did you do? Did you sell the house without telling us anything? How could you do something like that?”
Faith’s voice swung between disbelief and poorly contained fury.
“Dolores, we need to talk urgently. This is very serious. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Grant tried to sound authoritative but only managed to sound desperate.
“Mom, please answer. We are very worried. Where are you living now? Why didn’t you tell us you were going to sell? We had plans. We had talked about your future.”
Faith again, now trying the concerned-daughter approach.
