I showed Robert the message that afternoon. He read it and shook his head.
"That's insulting," he said. "But legally, Ms. Eleanor, we can't force them to do anything. I explained: the transfer has been made. If you reject the offer, you may not get anything."
I couldn't sleep that night.
$5,000 divided by twelve months was $417 a month. Added to my $400 pension, that was $817 a month.
With that money, I couldn't even rent a studio apartment in a decent neighborhood, let alone feed myself, pay utilities, or buy medicine.
The next morning, Margaret came into my room with the newspaper.
"Look," she said. "There are studio apartments for rent in Oakwood. Not exactly luxurious, but safe. $800 a month."
“Margaret,” I whispered, “I don’t have $800 a month. I can barely get by.”
“Then we’ll force them to lower it,” she said. “Or you’ll work.”
“Work,” I repeated, almost laughing in disbelief. “I’m seventy. Who hires a seventy-year-old?”
“You were a nurse,” Margaret said. “In clinics, hospitals, private homes. People need caregivers.”
The thought of going back to work full-time terrified me. But the alternative was worse: becoming dependent on Margaret, ending up in a shelter, or sleeping in a place I couldn’t survive.
So I accepted Jessica’s offer.
Five thousand measly dollars for my entire life.
Robert prepared the contract. My hand trembled as I wrote my name. Three days later, the money appeared in my account along with a message from Jessica.
"You can come tomorrow between 2:00 and 4:00 PM to pick up your personal belongings. Be punctual. We'll only give you two hours."
I arrived promptly at 2:00 PM. Margaret went with me.
Lucas opened the door.
He looked gaunt. Thinner. There were deep shadows under his eyes. He wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Your things are in boxes," he said. "In your room. Well... in what used to be your room. Jessica is turning it into an office."
I walked in and barely recognized my own apartment.
The furniture I'd so carefully chosen was gone. Modern furniture, cold and lifeless, replaced it. The walls I'd painted peach were now white. The family photos that hung in the hallway had been replaced by abstract art that meant nothing to me.
My room—my sanctuary—was empty except for six cardboard boxes stacked in the center like a cruel monument.
Twenty years of life reduced to six boxes.
I opened the first: clothes. The second: photos. The third: books. In the fourth, I found my mother's china wrapped in newspaper. A few pieces were broken. Loose pieces lay at the bottom.
No one had bothered to pack carefully.
"Where's the rest?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Jessica appeared in the doorway, holding Leo.
My grandson. He's three.
And he didn't recognize me.
He looked at me as if I were a stranger.
"We gave away the rest," Jessica said calmly. "Old things we didn't need. We assumed you wouldn't need them either, now that you'd be living in a smaller apartment."
“You donated,” I repeated, and the room spun. “You donated my mother’s furniture. My husband’s desk. The paintings I bought in Santa Fe.”
“They were just things,” she said smoothly. “You’ve accumulated too many. This is better—minimalist, healthier.”
Margaret had to hold me because my legs gave out.
“You’re cruel,” Margaret snapped at Jessica. “Really cruel.”
Jessica smiled, unfazed. “Be careful,” she said. “Accuses can be embarrassing.”
Lucas stood motionless in the hallway, staring at the floor. He didn’t defend me. He didn’t tell his wife to stop. He didn’t say a word.
He was there like the ghost of my son.
Margaret and I carried six boxes downstairs, three times to the car. Lucas didn’t offer to help.
On our third trip, we met Mrs. Martinez from apartment 302. She’d known me since I moved in.
“Eleanor,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing with so many boxes?”
I couldn’t answer. Margaret did it for me.
“He’s going on a long trip,” Margaret said with a broad smile.
A lie. Easier than the truth.
In Margaret’s apartment, I opened each box, searching for specific items. My wedding album was gone. The letters my husband wrote me when we were dating were gone. The pearl necklace my grandmother left me was missing. The blanket I knitted when Lucas was a baby was gone.
Everything of sentimental value had been donated or thrown away. They left me the bare necessities: clothes, a few books, loose photos, items that meant nothing to them but were my history.
That night, I called my younger daughter, Sara.
