“Then pay it.”
“You know our budget.”
“I know mine.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
“There is an excellent public elementary school less than ten minutes from your house.”
“This is because of the dinner.”
His voice changed, moving from anger to injured reasonableness.
“You misunderstood what Serena was trying to do.”
“No.”
“She was trying to help you.”
“The paperwork transferred ownership of my house.”
“It was about simplifying things.”
“Thomas.”
I rarely interrupted my son.
That time, I did.
“I have managed this house for thirty-two years. Your father and I paid the mortgage. I handle the taxes. I hire maintenance when I need it. I garden. I drive. I manage my investments. I travel alone. The house is not my problem.”
He said nothing.
“What I can no longer manage is pretending my own son isn’t taking advantage of me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was attempting to transfer my property.”
“We weren’t stealing anything.”
“You were certainly not buying it.”
He inhaled sharply.
“Mom—”
“I will not be funding your household anymore. You are a grown man with a profession. Serena is capable of working. Your daughters have two healthy parents. It is time the two of you supported the life you’ve chosen.”
He started another sentence.
I let him finish.
Then I said, “That is all I have to say about it.”
I ended the call and went back to the lavender.
Two days later, I hired a locksmith.
By lunchtime every exterior lock had been replaced.
Front door.
Back door.
Garage.
Kitchen slider.
Thomas and Serena had received a copy of my key the week my husband died. At the time, I had been barely functioning, grateful when anyone brought groceries or remembered to move the trash cans to the curb.
I had handed them access because I thought access meant care.
Those were not the same thing either.
That evening, I was reading in the sunroom when I heard metal scrape against the front lock.
Then again.
A pause.
The handle rattled.
“Try it again,” Thomas said outside.
My book stayed open on my lap for another second.
Then I stood.
When I opened the door with the security chain still attached, Thomas was holding an old brass key between his fingers.
Serena stood behind him.
Her expression shifted from confusion to fury.
“You changed the locks.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted new locks.”
“Let us in.”
“No.”
Her eyes widened.
“We need to talk.”
“We’re talking.”
“Thomas’s insurance expires in four days. The school says they’ll release the girls’ spots if we don’t resolve the balance.”
“Then I suggest resolving it.”
“This is a financial disaster.”
“It isn’t my financial disaster.”
Thomas stepped forward.
“Mom, come on.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“You locked your own son out of his childhood home.”
I studied him for a moment.
“This has not been your home for fourteen years.”
That landed harder than I expected.
His face changed.
I almost softened.
Then I remembered the property transfer sitting in Gerald Whitmore’s office.
“If you’d like to visit,” I said, “call first. If I’m available, I’ll be happy to see you.”
Serena folded her arms.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Good night, Serena.”
“Valerie—”
