Sign the papers, Grandma, or we’re putting you in a state home where nobody

I looked at Tyler — really looked — and saw his father’s cowardice wearing his mother’s smile. ‘Before I sign anything,’ I said softly, ‘let me get you both something.’ I stood, walked to the sideboard, and returned with the manila envelope I’d prepared. Brittany finally looked up. ‘What is that?’ I slid it across, exactly the way he’d slid his. ‘Open it.’ Tyler tore the flap. His face drained. Inside were bank statements — the ones showing the $86,000 he’d ‘borrowed’ from the joint account I’d added him to for ’emergencies only.’ Vegas hotels. Designer handbags. A Rolex. Every transaction highlighted in yellow. Behind that, a signed affidavit from my attorney, Margaret Chen, confirming she’d already filed to remove him as power of attorney last Tuesday. And behind THAT — the deed to the house, freshly transferred into an irrevocable trust naming my granddaughter Sophie, the one Tyler hadn’t spoken to since she came out at Christmas. ‘You— you can’t do this,’ Brittany stammered. ‘Oh sweetheart,’ I smiled, ‘I already did.’ Tyler stood up so fast his chair hit the wall. ‘Grandma, we can talk about this—’ ‘We’re done talking. You have until Sunday to repay every cent, or Margaret files criminal charges for elder financial exploitation. Georgia takes that very seriously. Up to twenty years.’ Brittany grabbed her purse. ‘Tyler, you SAID she was senile—’ ‘I said what she NEEDED to hear,’ I corrected gently. ‘There’s a difference.’ I walked them to the door I’d walked Tyler through in a christening gown forty years ago. On the porch, I handed him one last thing — a Tupperware of peach cobbler. ‘Your favorite,’ I said. ‘Consider it severance.’ Then I closed the door, locked it, and called Sophie. She answered on the first ring. ‘Grandma? Is everything okay?’ I smiled at my husband’s table. ‘Baby,’ I said, ‘come home. The house is yours.’