The first guest to speak was an older man named Martin, one of Thomas’s former colleagues. His voice was quiet but firm.
“Derek, what exactly did you file?”
Derek looked at him with open irritation. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“I’ve known your mother for thirty years. I was invited into this house tonight. I think it concerns everyone who is standing here watching her be threatened.”
Vanessa turned toward the guests. “No one is threatening her.”
The locksmith held up the authorization. “This document says the resident is being removed from the property.”
“I wrote that,” Derek said.
“Why?”
“Because she agreed to move.”
I looked at him. “When?”
He stared at me.
“When did I agree to move?”
“You said you wanted something smaller.”
“I said the stairs hurt my knees.”
“You said you were tired of the upkeep.”
“I said I was tired of doing it alone.”
“You signed papers.”
“What papers?”
His silence answered before he did.
The room seemed to tilt. I remembered the afternoon three months earlier when Derek had arrived with a folder. He had said the bank needed updated insurance information. He had brought soup, sat at my kitchen table, and told me not to worry about the legal language because he had already reviewed everything.
I had trusted him.
I had signed where he pointed.
“What did I sign?” I asked.
Derek’s jaw moved.
Vanessa stepped between us. “You signed a power of attorney.”
“For what?”
“Your finances.”
I looked at Derek.
He said nothing.
“And the house?”
“That was part of the estate planning.”
“No.”
“It was a transfer-on-death arrangement.”
“No.”
“I was protecting your future.”
“You were transferring my home.”
His face hardened. “To me. Your son. The person who has been paying for everything.”
“You didn’t transfer it after my death.”
“You were going to move.”
“I never agreed to give you this house while I was alive.”
“You weren’t using it properly.”
The words struck harder than his confession.
Not using it properly.
The house where I had raised him. The house where Thomas had painted the kitchen yellow because I had cried in a hardware store over paint colors. The house where Derek had taken his first steps and slept through thunderstorms with his fingers wrapped around my sleeve.
I looked toward the dining table. The candles were still burning. The roast had gone cold. Vanessa’s plate sat untouched beside the one she had stolen from me.
“You invited these people here to celebrate taking my home.”
Derek’s eyes shifted.
Martin whispered, “Is that true?”
Derek didn’t answer.
The locksmith took a small step backward. “I’m not changing anything tonight. I’ll void the work order and contact the company.”
Derek turned on him. “You will do no such thing.”
“I will.”
“I can have you sued.”
“You can try.”
The locksmith closed his case. The metal clasps snapped shut with a clean, final sound.
I should have felt relief, but the fear had already entered the room. It sat beside me, cold and alert.
“What else did you sign for me?” I asked.
Derek looked at the floor.
That was worse than any answer.
I took out my phone and called the number of the attorney who had handled Thomas’s estate. I had not spoken to her in nearly a year, but she answered on the fourth ring.
