I’d been counting down the days to my retirement. After decades working as a nurse — 38 years at the same clinic — I was finally ready to slow down. The hospital had changed names more than once, staff came and went, but I stayed. Not because I had to, but because I cared.
At home, my life revolved around my family: my son, Thomas; his wife, Delia; and my two grandchildren, Ben and Lora. We all lived together — in my house — and I’d always made sure they were taken care of.
I paid most of the bills — electricity, groceries, insurance. I even told them, “As long as I’m alive, nobody in my family will pay rent.”
Delia didn’t work, claiming she was too busy with the kids, even though I often looked after them for hours each day. Somehow, she still found time for shopping trips, coming home every couple of weeks with new shoes. She’d always wave it off: “I only buy when it’s on sale.” I never argued. It was easier just to cover the expenses quietly.
Thomas was gentle, like his late father, but avoided conflict. Whenever I asked why Ben’s sneakers were worn out while Delia’s closet looked like a department store, he’d just sigh and say, “Mom, please… don’t start.”
But I let things go because my grandkids adored me. Lora loved climbing into bed with me at night, and little Ben once whispered, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a castle. You’ll be the queen.”
When my retirement day came, I didn’t cry. I’d known it was coming. My coworkers gave me cupcakes, balloons, and a mug that said “Retired, not expired.” I laughed along, though inside I was nervous — unsure what life without work would feel like.
On the way home, I picked up a strawberry cream cake for the family. I pictured us sharing it together that night.
But when I reached my porch, my key no longer fit in the lock. Two suitcases — mine — sat neatly by the door. A yellow sticky note was attached:
“Thank you for everything. It’s time for you to rest. Your room at the senior facility is paid for a year. Cash for the cab is in the envelope. Thomas thinks this is YOUR IDEA. So if you ever want to see the kids again — follow MY PLAN. Delia.”
The cake tilted in my hands, smearing frosting against the lid. My stomach turned cold. She’d done it — Delia had forced me out of my own home.
For nearly an hour, I stood outside, unsure what to do, until I thought of Bonnie — my best friend and neighbor since 1986. She opened the door before I even knocked, her cat perched on her hip like a holster.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. “I thought you were halfway to some senior resort.”
Inside, over mugs of tea, I explained everything. Bonnie was furious. When I told her I’d put Thomas and Delia’s names on the house last year — at Delia’s suggestion for “tax purposes” — she practically exploded.
“You gave that woman a castle, and now she’s treating you like the court jester!”
Still, I didn’t want a public fight. I didn’t want to lose my grandkids.
“Then we don’t fight loud,” Bonnie said. “We fight smart.”
From her window the next day, we spotted Gary, my gardener, showing up on an odd day. Minutes later, Delia opened the door in a crop top and leggings, letting him inside like it was routine. My chest tightened.
We needed proof. That’s when I remembered the “gift” Ben had given me — a mini pet camera. We strapped it to Bonnie’s cat, Mr. Pickles, and sent him in through the side gate.
From Bonnie’s laptop, we watched Delia in my kitchen, telling Gary, “Tom’s still in Oregon. And I finally got rid of Nana. So glad we can meet more often now.” Then the sounds started — undeniable, disgusting proof.
We saved the footage.
When Thomas returned the next evening, I met him on the lawn and led him to Bonnie’s backyard, where we’d set up a projector. He watched in stunned silence as the video played. Then I handed him the original sticky note Delia had left on my suitcase.
His hands shook as he read it. He turned to Delia, his voice flat: “Go inside. Pack your things.”
When she was gone, Thomas sank down on the flowerbed edge, burying his face in his hands.
“She isolated you,” he said quietly. “And I let her. That’s on me.”
“We both got fooled by someone we trusted,” I told him.
Later, Bonnie and I went to pick up the kids for a sleepover at her house. As she hummed and talked about baking a pie, I looked back at my home.
It was mine again.
Because I might be retired — but I sure as hell wasn’t finished.