Tristan grinned at his girlfriend like he’d just closed a billion-dollar deal. His mother, my daughter-in-law Brenda, dabbed her lips and added, ‘Eleanor, honey, it’s just safer this way. You’ve been so forgetful.’ Forgetful. I almost laughed. I’d been forgetting on purpose for months — misplacing my reading glasses, calling the cat by the wrong name, asking what year it was. I wanted to see exactly how far they’d go. They went all the way.
I stood, walked to the sideboard, and pulled out a slim leather folder. ‘Before we discuss the house,’ I said, ‘I’d like to share something.’ I slid the folder to Tristan. Inside were printed screenshots — every text he’d sent his girlfriend for the past four months. ‘Once the old bat signs, we list it by spring.’ ‘She thinks the casserole I bring her is homemade — it’s gas station.’ ‘Mom’s in. She’ll testify Grandma’s losing it.’
The room went silent. Brenda’s wine glass froze halfway to her mouth.
‘How did you—’ Tristan started.
‘The same phone I helped you set up,’ I said gently. ‘The one still backed up to my old iCloud account. You really should change passwords, dear.’
Then I pulled out the second envelope. ‘This is from my attorney, Margaret Chen. Three weeks ago, I transferred the house into an irrevocable trust. The beneficiaries are the local women’s shelter and your cousin Hannah — the only grandchild who calls me without wanting something. Neither of you is named anywhere.’
Brenda stood up so fast her chair tipped. ‘Eleanor, you can’t—’
‘I already did.’ I turned to Tristan, whose face had gone the color of the cranberry sauce. ‘You have until Sunday to collect your things from the guest room. The locks change Monday. And the gas station casserole lady? She’s my neighbor Doris. She’s been laughing about you for weeks.’
I sat back down, picked up my fork, and took a perfect bite of pumpkin pie. ‘Now,’ I smiled, ‘who wants coffee?’
