“Because it’s my house,” I said. “And I like it the way it is.”
“Well, we don’t. We’re going to live here. So we have a right to an opinion.”
“An opinion, yes. A decision, no. Because this house is mine, Chloe. Mine. Not yours. Not Adrien’s. Mine.”
“But Adrien said you were going to leave it to him someday.”
“Someday—when I decide to. But that day isn’t today. And the way things are going, that day might never come.”
Chloe looked at me like I had slapped her. She opened her mouth to say something, but just then, Linda arrived.
“What happened? Why did the truck leave?”
“Because Eleanor kicked them out,” Chloe said, her voice trembling. “Because she doesn’t want us to fix anything. Because she wants us to live in this horrible house forever.”
“Oh,” Linda said, approaching with that superior attitude that bothered me so much. “We get it. You don’t want to cooperate. You don’t want to help. You just want to keep everything as it is because you’re selfish.”
“Selfish,” I repeated. “I’m selfish because I don’t want you to do whatever you please in my own home.”
“This house should belong to your son,” Linda said. And now her voice was hard, with no pretense of kindness. “A son you emotionally abandoned for years while you worked all day. A son who needed a mother, but you preferred your career.”
I froze. How dare she? How dare this woman who didn’t know me, who knew nothing about my life, judge me like that?
“I worked,” I said, my voice shaking because Adrien’s father died and someone had to put food on the table. “I worked for 30 years to give him an education, clothes, a roof over his head. I worked to buy this very house, and now you come here having done nothing, having contributed nothing, and tell me I’m a bad mother.”
“I didn’t say you were a bad mother,” Linda retorted. “I said you abandoned him emotionally. And it’s true. That’s why Adrien is with us now—because we take care of him. We make him feel loved.”
I looked at both of them—at Chloe, her eyes shining with rage; at Linda, with that cruel smile, enjoying every second of my pain—and I understood something very clearly. This wasn’t just about the house anymore. This was about destroying me completely.
“Get out of my sight,” I said in a low voice. “Both of you. Now.”
“This is our house, too,” Chloe insisted.
“No, it’s not. And if you don’t get out of my sight right this minute, I will remove you myself.”
I don’t know what they saw in my eyes, but something made them back down. They went into the living room, and I went straight to my room. I locked the door. I sat on the floor and I cried. I cried from rage. I cried from sadness. I cried for my son who wasn’t there to defend me. I cried for all the years I worked alone, sacrificed alone, and fought alone to give him a decent life. And I cried because now, at 70 years old, I had to keep fighting alone.
But after I cried, I wiped my tears. I stood up and grabbed my phone. I dialed Mr. Hayes.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lopez. What can I do for you?”
“I need you to prepare the papers,” I said, and my voice was no longer shaking. “I want Chloe Torres and Linda Torres out of my house. I have 30 days to notify them. Correct?”
“Correct. That’s correct.”
“Then I want you to prepare a formal legal notification. They have 30 days to vacate my property, and I want you to come and serve it to them personally.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Lopez?”
“Completely sure.”
“Very well. I’ll have the documents ready by Monday. When would you like me to deliver them?”
“Next Sunday. During lunch. I want the whole family to be present.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
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“Understood. I’ll be there.”
I hung up and took a deep breath. It was done. There was no turning back. And for the first time in months, I felt something like peace.
The following week was the longest of my life. Every day that passed, I knew what was coming. I knew that Sunday would change everything. And in the meantime, I had to keep living in the same house with Chloe and Linda, pretending everything was normal. They were acting strange, too—whispering to each other, looking at me sideways—but they no longer spoke to me directly. It was as if they were waiting for me to explode, to yell at them, to leave.
But I did none of that. I just stuck to my routine. I went for my walks, went to yoga with Margaret, came home, and locked myself in my room.
On Tuesday, Margaret asked if I had spoken to Adrien.
“No, I haven’t spoken to him since the incident with the contractors.”
“And he hasn’t come to you?”
“No. He just holds up in his room with Chloe or leaves early for work. I think he’s afraid to face the situation.”
“Are you scared about what’s going to happen on Sunday?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m more scared of staying quiet and letting them walk all over me.”
Margaret nodded.
“You’re doing the right thing, Eleanor. You’ll see.”
On Thursday, a message from Chloe came through on the family group chat we had—Adrien, her, and me. It was strange because no one had written in it for weeks.
“Family, I propose we have a special lunch this Sunday. My treat. I want us to have a nice moment altogether.”
I read the message three times. A special lunch right now—it was too much of a coincidence. Either she was planning something or she genuinely wanted to make peace. But after everything that had happened, I no longer believed in her good intentions.
Adrien replied, “Sounds good. What are we having?”
“I’m making your favorite roast chicken with potatoes. And for dessert, the Tres Leches cake you love.”
I didn’t respond. I just left the message on read.
Friday night, as I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, I heard voices in the living room. It was Chloe, Linda, and Adrien. They were talking loudly as if they no longer cared if I heard them.
