While they panicked, I thrived. I went to a high-end salon and chopped off my hair into a sharp, modern bob, dyeing it a rich chestnut that erased ten years from my face. I walked into an Apple store and bought a top-of-the-line laptop. I hired a sharp twenty-something tutor to come to my house for daily lessons on advanced financial software and digital investing.
Susan had mocked me, saying a banking app was “too complicated” for my old brain. She didn’t know that within seven days, I had successfully transferred ninety percent of my liquid assets into an ironclad, high-yield trust fund that Richard couldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
Finally, Sunday arrived. The day their flight landed back in New York.
I knew their itinerary. I knew they would reach their apartment building by 8:00 PM. I drew a hot salt bath, changed into luxurious silk pajamas, and sat by the phone.
At exactly 8:15 PM, it rang.
I let it ring four times before calmly picking it up. “Hello?”
“Mom! What the hell is this?!” Richard’s voice exploded through the speaker, frantic and furious. “Are you insane?! Did you kick us out of our apartment?!”
In the background, I could hear Susan screeching hysterically. “She’s lost her mind, Richard! Call the police!”
“Richard,” I said, my voice smooth and chillingly calm. “Lower your voice. I am not deaf.”
“There is an eviction notice taped to our front door! Thirty days!” he yelled. “You’re joking, right?!”
“It’s a legal notice from the court, Richard. Very serious. Not a joke.”
“You’re throwing your own son out on the street?!”
