My son sent me a message: “Mom, I know you just bought us the house, but Sarah’s dad says you can’t come to Thanksgiving.” I stared at the screen, thought about the $350,000 I had spent to give him a home, and typed one word back: “Okay.” That night, I stopped being everybody’s wallet and started being the woman who was about to take everything back—starting with the house they thought was already theirs.

“You’re punishing me for Sarah’s father. That’s not fair. I didn’t want to uninvite you, but he insisted. And Sarah was stressed about hosting, and I thought… I thought you’d understand.”

The third at 10.

“Fine. Don’t answer, but you should know Richard says we should sue you. Emotional harm, financial manipulation. We’re getting a lawyer Monday morning.”

I deleted that one with special satisfaction.

Monday afternoon, Linda called again.

“They talked to a lawyer,” she said. I could hear amusement in her voice. “The lawyer apparently laughed at them. Your paperwork is perfect. Every loan written down, every check labeled. They have no case.”

“I expected that. Richard strikes me as someone who thinks courts are weapons instead of places for justice.”

“You know him?”

“Never met him, but I know the type.”

Wednesday evening, I was making soup when headlights swept across my living room window. I went upstairs to the bedroom, looked down at my driveway. Danny’s Honda sat there, engine running. I could see him through the windshield, hands on the wheel, staring at my front door.

He didn’t move for 4 minutes. Fifteen. At 35 minutes, he drove away.

I went back downstairs and finished making my soup.