My phone buzzed.
Courtney.
I let it ring.
A second message arrived.
The San Diego HOA bill was $3,500.
She wanted me to send the money immediately.
There was no apology for throwing me out. She didn’t ask whether I had arrived safely.
It was simply another demand.
I opened the joint emergency account Brandon still shared with me.
There was $30,000 in it.
I transferred exactly half, $15,000, into my private savings account.
Then I texted Courtney.
“I’ve removed my half of the emergency fund. The rest is yours. Manage it well.”
Brandon called immediately.
“Mom, what are you doing? We need that money for the penthouse.”
“A luxury HOA bill isn’t an emergency.”
His voice became tense.
“But Dad always paid it.”
“Your father is gone, Brandon. The property belongs to you now. So do the expenses.”
Then Courtney took the phone.
“You are going to transfer that money back right now, or you will never see us again.”
I stood at the kitchen window, watching the moonlight spread across the pine trees.
“You kicked me out and called me a stinking old woman. Why would I pay to maintain a relationship with someone who treats me like garbage?”
“Because he’s your son!”
“And he’s a grown man.”
I ended the call.
The next morning, I was planting tomatoes in the greenhouse George had secretly built when I heard tires rolling over the gravel.
Brandon’s silver sedan came to a stop near my porch.
He climbed out wearing a tailored city suit, his face red with frustration.
“You need to sell this cabin.”
