That same evening Ethan demanded forty thousand dollars, claiming they were behind on their mortgage.
When I refused, his face hardened into something ugly.
“You’re old, Mom,” he snapped. “What do you even need that much money for? You can’t take it with you when you die.”
Something inside me cracked that day.
Then, two nights later, I caught Brittany photographing my bank statements from my mailbox.
And on Wednesday morning, I received a terrifying phone call from a legal office informing me someone had requested an evaluation regarding my mental competency.
My own son was trying to declare me senile.
Not because I was confused.
Because I wouldn’t hand over my savings.
But they underestimated me.
Two days earlier, I had already visited my doctor and obtained a full cognitive evaluation proving I was mentally healthy. My friend Gloria’s son, Attorney Daniel Harper, had helped me move every dollar into a protected account requiring fingerprint authorization for withdrawals.
So that night, after hearing their little conspiracy, I quietly rose from bed.
From my dresser drawer, I pulled out an expired debit card from three years earlier and placed it inside my wallet where it would be easy to find.
Then I returned to bed and pretended to sleep.
Minutes later, my bedroom door creaked open.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Careful.
Sneaky.
My throat tightened as I sensed Ethan standing beside my bed.
My son.
The little boy whose scraped knees I used to kiss.
The teenager whose college tuition I paid by selling my wedding jewelry.
Now digging through my purse in the dark.
I heard the zipper slide open.
Then close again.
The footsteps retreated.
The door clicked shut.
Only then did one tear slide down my cheek.
