When I Asked What Time The Engagement Dinner Was, My Daughter Replied, “Oh… We Already Had It Yesterday. Just Close Family.” A Week Later, She Called Me In A Rush: “The Payment Didn’t Process. Did You Forget To Cover It?” I Simply Said,

“And you want to change the executor?”

“Yes. You, if you’re willing.”

Janet nodded. “I am.

Now, regarding the credit card situation, the bank will likely recover most of those charges. But Sandy, I need to ask—are you prepared for the fallout? Your children aren’t going to take this quietly.”

As if summoned by her words, my phone rang.

Zoe again. I declined the call. “They’ve been calling all day,” I said.

“Jerry has already moved out, taking his girlfriend with him. He seems to think I’ll change my mind when I get lonely.”

“Will you?”

The question hung in the air. Would I?

It would be so easy to call them back, to apologize, to restore the status quo, to return to being the mother who said yes to everything—who absorbed their problems and smoothed their paths. “No,” I said. And meant it.

“I won’t.”

Janet’s smile was small but approving. “Good. Now, there’s something else we should discuss.

Have you considered a restraining order? If they start harassing you—”

“Let’s see how they handle the new boundaries first.”

By the time I left Janet’s office, it was nearly 6:00 p.m. The revised will would be ready by the end of the week.

The credit card investigation was underway. The locks were changed. I had taken back control of my narrative, and it felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

I stopped at the grocery store on my way home, buying only what I needed for myself. A small chicken breast. Fresh vegetables.

A bottle of wine I’d been saving for a special occasion. In the checkout line, I realized this was a special occasion. The first day of my life where I mattered to myself as much as I’d always mattered to others.

The house felt different when I returned. Quieter, yes. But also cleaner somehow.

Rebecca’s crystals were gone. Jerry’s scattered possessions—magazines, dirty dishes, charging cables—had been swept away. The air no longer smelled of sage and entitlement.

I was preparing dinner when I heard a gentle knock at my back door. Through the window, I could see my neighbor from two houses down. A woman about my age whom I’d waved to occasionally but never really spoken with.

She was holding a casserole dish. I opened the door cautiously. “Hi,” she said, offering a tentative smile.

“I’m Elizabeth Duncan. I live in the blue house with the garden. I hope I’m not intruding, but I noticed there was some commotion earlier—raised voices—and I saw a young man leaving with suitcases.”

She paused, looking embarrassed.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Elizabeth Duncan. Mrs. Duncan.

I’d been watching her tend her garden for years, admiring her roses and vegetable plots, but we’d never done more than exchange pleasantries about the weather. “I’m fine,” I said automatically. Then caught myself.

“Actually, that’s not entirely true. I’m having a difficult day, but I’m handling it.”

“Would you like some company while you handle it?” she asked, lifting the casserole dish slightly. “I made too much lasagna, and eating alone gets old after a while.”

There was something in her eyes—a recognition, perhaps.

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