“It could work, but I would have to do it gradually. First convince her to live with me for a few months—that the house is too big for her alone. Then suggest she rent it out in the meantime.”
“And finally.”
“And finally what?”
“Finally, make her see that the most sensible thing is to transfer it to my name. For her own good, for her safety.”
I poured the coffee with trembling hands. Every word was a silent stab.
It wasn’t the fact that they wanted the house that hurt me. It was the manipulation, the coldness with which they were planning to disarm me piece by piece. I went out to the patio with the tray of coffee and cookies, smiling as if I hadn’t heard a thing.
They smiled, too, took their cups, talked about the weather and the grandchildren—perfect actors in a play I had just discovered had been running for months.
The following weeks confirmed my suspicions. Faith started making comments about how lonely I must feel in that big house.
“Mom, you have four bedrooms and you only use one. Don’t you think that’s a waste?”
Grant mentioned articles he had read about elderly people suffering accidents in two-story houses.
“Stairs are dangerous at your age, Dolores. One fall and you could end up in the hospital.”
Elderly.
That word began to appear frequently in their conversations, as if my seventy years had automatically turned me into someone incapable of caring for herself, as if having gray hair and wrinkles meant my brain had stopped working.
One night, Faith arrived with a folder full of brochures.
“Look, Mom. I’ve been researching senior living communities. Beautiful places where you would have company, activities, nurses available twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t need nurses. I am a nurse.”
“But you’re getting older. And these places are wonderful. Look at this one. It has gardens, a ballroom, even yoga classes.”
“And how much does that paradise cost?”
