“Grandma, they’re going to make you sign papers tonight to take your money. I heard them practicing what to say to you.” My eleven-year-old grandson, Lucas, whispered the words into my ear, and with that single, hushed confession, the carefully constructed world of my family shattered.
I sat there, stunned, as the pieces of the last few weeks clicked into place with sickening clarity. The sudden celebration for his science fair win, the expensive dinner plans, the coordinated, saccharine smiles from my son and his wife—it was all a meticulously designed trap. But what they didn’t know was that while they were rehearsing their lines to steal my independence, I was already ten steps ahead of them. They thought they were dealing with a confused, frail old woman. They had no idea what they had just started.
The phone rang at exactly 7:22 a.m. on a Thursday. I know because I was staring at the kitchen clock, waiting for my second cup of coffee to brew. Four years of living alone, and I still made enough for two. A habit Frank and I had shared for thirty-two years
