I never imagined the boy I raised as my own would turn his back on me.
Daniel was my heart, pride, and baby before he was my grandson. When his parents moved to Europe, I took him in. After my husband died, it was just us. I trusted him completely.
One day, Daniel gently suggested, “Grandma, we should put the house in my name. It’ll make things easier if… if anything happens.” I was weak and tired. I signed.
Later, he came home with his girlfriend, Chloe. When I got sick, he said casually, “Grandma, you need to leave.” As if reminding me to get milk. “Chloe is moving in. You can go to a shelter or something.”
I was homeless. I went next door and called my lawyer. “Remember that clause?” I asked. My lawyer had added a condition: if Daniel forced me out, the house reverted to me.
By evening, the locks were changed. When Daniel raged at the door, I laughed. “Oh, honey. You really should have read the fine print.”
I sold the house and moved to a retirement community, finally spending money on myself—traveling, painting, and making friends.
