The next few days were strange. I went about my normal routine as if nothing was wrong. I got up early, made coffee, went walking with my group on Saturdays, went to yoga with Margaret on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But inside, I was completely alert, watching, noting everything in my head.
Chloe sent me the information on the apartments via WhatsApp, just as she’d promised. There were three options—all small, all cheap, all in neighborhoods I didn’t know. I thanked her and told her I’d think about it. She replied with a smiley face emoji and a heart, as if she were doing me a favor.
But things in the house kept changing. Every day, something new. One Thursday, I came home from grocery shopping and found they had moved all the living room furniture again. The main sofa was now against the window. The coffee table I had bought 15 years ago was shoved into the garage. And in its place was a new glass table I had never seen before.
“Do you like it?” Chloe asked when she saw me looking. “We bought it yesterday. It’s modern. Gives the living room a different feel. Don’t you think?”
We bought it. She and who? Adrien hadn’t said anything. And I didn’t say anything either—not at that moment. I just nodded and went to the kitchen to put away my vegetables.
But when I got to the kitchen, I saw something that made me stop cold. All my pots—the ones I had used for 30 years—were stacked in a cardboard box next to the refrigerator. And on the stove were new pots, stainless steel, shiny, expensive pots I had not bought.
“Oh, yeah,” Chloe said, walking in behind me. “We updated the pots, too. Yours were looking pretty old, Eleanor. These are non-stick. Much better. We’re going to donate yours.”
Donate my pots. The pots I had cooked in for my husband for 20 years. The pots where I made Adrien his favorite meal every birthday. The pots that held the memory of thousands of dinners, thousands of moments.
“I see,” I said, and my voice came out colder than I expected. “But those pots are mine. And if anyone is going to donate them, it will be me.”
Chloe blinked. For the first time, I think she noticed I wasn’t completely on board with everything she was doing, but she recovered quickly.
“Oh, Mom, of course. Whatever you say. We just wanted to help modernize the house a bit.”
Modernize. That word again. As if everything of mine was old and needed to be replaced. As if I were old and needed to be replaced.
That night after dinner, I locked myself in my room and took out the house papers—the original documents, the deed that had been in my name for 35 years. I read them completely, line by line. I wanted to be absolutely sure. And yes, there it was: Eleanor Lopez, sole owner. No other name, no other signature.
The next day, a Friday morning, I called the first lawyer on my list. A very polite receptionist answered.
“Good morning.”
“My name is Eleanor Lopez, and I need a consultation regarding a property matter.”
“Of course, ma’am. When would you like to come in? Do you have anything available this week?”
“Let me check.”
“Yes, we have an opening on Monday at 10:00 in the morning.”
“Perfect. I’ll be there.”
