At home, I lived with my son Thomas, his wife Delia, and my grandkids, Ben and Lora — all under my roof. I never charged them rent and paid most of the bills. Delia didn’t work, but somehow bought new shoes constantly while I watched the kids for hours every day.
Thomas was gentle but avoided conflict. I let things go because I loved my grandkids — Lora slept beside me, and Ben promised to buy me a castle someday.
When the clinic made me retire at seventy, I stayed positive. I picked up a strawberry cream cake for the kids and headed home. But the door was locked, my key didn’t work, and two of my suitcases were sitting outside. A sticky note from Delia said she’d moved me into a senior home, told Thomas it was my idea, and warned that if I wanted to see the kids, I had to follow her plan.
Heartbroken, I went to my best friend Bonnie across the street. She took me in, furious on my behalf. I told her everything — even that I’d added Thomas and Delia to the house deed last year because Delia said it would help with taxes.
We agreed not to fight loud — but smart. Something about Delia felt off lately.
The next day, Bonnie spotted our gardener, Gary, going into my house on a weekday — unusual. Delia opened the door dressed for attention, and Gary walked right in. Suspicious, we set up a tiny pet camera around Bonnie’s cat and sent him inside.
From the live feed, we heard Delia: “Tom’s in Oregon. And I finally got rid of Nana. Now we can meet more often.” Then unmistakable sounds.
We saved the footage and prepared a little “showtime” for when Thomas got home Friday evening.