That was enough. We spent weeks reviewing options. In the end, I changed the plan. The house would be sold after my death. A portion of the proceeds would go into separate trusts for my grandchildren. The rest would go to three organizations Robert and I had supported for years — a local hospice foundation, a county scholarship program, and a cancer support nonprofit that had helped our family during Robert’s treatment. Daniel would receive some personal items and a modest amount of cash. But he would not receive the house. Neither would Melissa.
I told no one. It was my estate plan, and I was still alive.
Two months later, Daniel called crying. Their building had been sold, the new owner was renovating, and they had three weeks to leave. His hours had been cut. Melissa was pregnant again. Their savings were almost gone. “We just need a month or two,” he said.
My first instinct was yes. He was my son. So I cleared the rooms, rearranged the garage, paid the movers, and told him not to worry.
They arrived on a Saturday morning. By Saturday evening, half my kitchen counters had been rearranged. On Sunday I found my plates had been moved to different shelves. “You’ll get used to it,” Melissa smiled. On Monday the thermostat was set to sixty-eight. I changed it back to seventy-two. An hour later it was sixty-eight again.
So I told myself not to be difficult. I ate after them. I kept my television low. I was the guest in my own home, and I played the part beautifully — because I knew something they didn’t. The envelope was already prepared. The papers were already signed. The rules on Melissa’s printed sheet were about to meet rules of a different kind.
The next evening, at exactly 6:30, my doorbell rang three times. Linda arrived first with a bottle of wine. Carol brought lemon cake. Janice came through the door with two bags of Italian takeout and announced that if I had made her put on real shoes for a sad salad, she was leaving.
Melissa appeared in the hallway. “What is this?”