I went back because I’d forgotten my reading glasses on Roberta’s kitchen table. Such a typical senior moment, I thought to myself as I walked up the stone path to her neat little suburban house in Decatur, just outside Atlanta. The late‑afternoon air was heavy and still, the kind of humid Georgia heat that makes every sound carry.
My footsteps seemed louder than usual on the concrete.
As I neared the slightly open dining‑room window, I heard something that made me stop dead in my tracks. “Don’t you worry, honey.
Your mother’s house will be ours soon.”
It was Samuel’s voice, my son‑in‑law, speaking in a tone I’d never heard from him before—slick, cold, professional. “She won’t even have the money to hire a lawyer to fight us,” he added.
“Old folks like her don’t know a thing about these legal procedures.”
My heart started pounding so hard I was afraid they could hear it from inside.
I stood motionless, pressed against the brick wall, as the words kept coming. “I’ve checked everything, Mom,” my daughter Roberta’s voice said, sharp and calculating. “The will is in order, and with the documents she signed last month for the mortgage loan, we’re practically doing her a favor.
When she can’t make the payments on the loan we took out in her name, we’ll appear as the only available heirs to ‘save the day.’”
I felt as if the ground were shifting beneath my feet.
The loan. The papers they’d put in front of me at my own kitchen table.
The “family investment for the future of the grandchildren.” The stack of documents I’d signed without fully reading because I trusted them. Because they were my family.
“What if she gets suspicious?” Samuel asked.
“She won’t,” Roberta replied. “She’s seventy, Samuel. At that age, they don’t process information like they used to.
Besides, she’s always trusted me blindly.
I told her the loan was to buy a bigger house for all of us, that we’d live together. She got so excited she signed without asking any questions.”
My daughter’s laugh cut through me like shattered glass.
It was a laugh I had known since she was a little girl, but now it sounded different—devoid of warmth. “The best part is that she’s making it easy for us,” Roberta continued.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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