After that dinner, things changed. Chloe and Linda stopped pretending. There were no more fake smiles or attempts to be nice. Now they just ignored me. They’d walk past me as if I were invisible. They’d talk loudly to each other about their plans, about the remodel, about how they would arrange the rooms when the children arrived. And Adrien remained in the middle—quiet, uncomfortable, not taking anyone’s side.
One Saturday morning, while I was on my walk with the group, Margaret asked me how things were going.
“Bad,” I told her. “Worse every day. They don’t even pretend anymore. They talk as if I don’t exist.”
“And your son?”
“My son says nothing. He pretends not to see, not to hear.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Eleanor, how long are you going to put up with this?”
“Not much longer,” I admitted. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
“The right moment for what?”
“To show them who owns that house.”
Margaret smiled.
“There’s my friend. There’s the Eleanor I know.”
That same afternoon when I got home, I saw something that made me make the final decision. There was a truck parked in front of my house—a truck from a construction company. And in the entryway, Chloe was talking to two men carrying rolled-up blueprints. I approached them slowly.
“What’s going on here?”
Chloe turned and looked at me with a mix of defiance and nervousness.
“It’s the contractors, Eleanor. They came to give an estimate for the remodel.”
“The estimate? Without consulting me.”
“Well, Adrien already gave the okay—”
“And Adrien is not the owner of this house,” I interrupted, and I looked directly at the two men. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry you came all this way, but there will be no remodel. This is my house, and I did not authorize any work.”
One of the men looked at Chloe, confused.
“Ma’am, you called us and said it was urgent we come out to measure.”
“I called them,” Chloe said. “Because I live here and I have a right to improve my home.”
“Your home?” I repeated, and I felt the rage rise in my throat like fire. “Your home, Chloe?”
“Well—Adrien’s home. It’s the same thing.”
I turned back to the contractors.
“Gentlemen, this house is in my name. Eleanor Lopez. You can check the public record if you like. And I repeat: there is no work authorized here. So I’m asking you to please leave.”
The men looked at each other, uncomfortable. Then one of them nodded.
“Understood, ma’am. We’re sorry for the misunderstanding.”
They left.
And I stood there in front of Chloe, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would explode.
“How dare you?” I said. “How dare you call contractors to my house without my permission?”
“It’s because you don’t want to improve anything,” Chloe shot back. And now her voice had no sweetness at all. It was pure venom. “This house is old. It’s ugly. It’s outdated. And you won’t do anything to fix it.”
