Sign the papers, Mom, or I swear we’ll have you declared incompetent by Friday

I picked up the pen. Derek smirked at Chelsea. I clicked it twice, set it down, and walked to the cabinet beneath the sink. ‘Before I sign anything,’ I said softly, ‘let me get you both some water. It’s a hot day.’ I poured three glasses. Then I pulled my phone from the apron pocket and tapped one button. ‘Margaret Whitfield calling. Yes, he’s here now. Both of them.’ Derek’s smile faltered. ‘Mom, who is that?’ The front door opened. In walked my attorney, Eleanor, followed by two officers from Adult Protective Services and a forensic accountant named Raymond. Eleanor set down her briefcase. ‘Derek. Chelsea. We’ve been waiting six months for you to try this in person.’ I turned to my son. ‘I didn’t forget your birthday, sweetheart. I forgot to tell you something. Three years ago, after you cleaned out my checking account to pay for Chelsea’s Bali trip, I moved everything into an irrevocable trust. The house. The investments. Your father’s patents. All of it.’ Chelsea’s water glass trembled. ‘The beneficiary,’ I continued, ‘is the Whitfield Foundation for Widowed Mothers. I’m only the trustee. I couldn’t sign this paper if I wanted to.’ Raymond opened his folder. ‘We’ve also traced the $84,000 you wired from her dormant savings account last spring, Derek. The bank flagged it. We just needed you to show up in person to confirm intent.’ Derek went the color of skim milk. ‘Mom, please, we can talk—’ ‘You brought a notary to evict your mother,’ I said. ‘We’re done talking.’ Eleanor handed him a different envelope. ‘Restraining order. Effective immediately. You have twenty minutes to leave the property.’ Chelsea grabbed her purse and ran. Derek lingered, mouth open, the pen still on the counter between us. I picked up my pruning shears from the windowsill. ‘The tomatoes won’t wait, Derek. Neither will I.’ I walked back to my garden and didn’t look up until the driveway was empty.