Then, again, the soft blade: “Besides, you’re getting older. A baby is a lot of work. We don’t want you to get hurt.”
It hurt anyway, but I swallowed it.
Visits to see Leo had to be coordinated weeks in advance, and they were always short—an hour at most. Jessica always found a reason to end them.
“Leo has to sleep.”
“Leo is cranky.”
“Leo needs his routine.”
Lucas just nodded. He never defended me. He never said, “Mom, stay longer.” He never said, “We miss you.”
A year ago, Lucas arrived alone at my apartment one afternoon. Without warning, he looked nervous.
“Mom, I need to talk to you about something important.”
I sat on the sofa, heart racing. “What is it? Are you sick?”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s about the apartment.”
He sat beside me. He took my hands.
“Look,” he said, “you’re not going to live forever. I’m sorry. I know that sounds awful, but it’s true. And when you’re gone, this place could get tied up in a long process. It can take years. Jessica and I looked into it, and the best option is for you to transfer the apartment to my name now. That way, when something happens, everything is easier.”
I stared at him. “But I keep living here.”
“Of course,” he said immediately. “Obviously. It’s just a formality. Just paperwork. Mom, I would never hurt you. You know that.”
And I believed him.
Because he was my son. Because I had raised him. Because I trusted him more than anyone.
I put my name where he told me to. I agreed to what he said was necessary.
Three weeks later, someone official came to the apartment to witness the forms. Lucas was there smiling, assuring me everything was fine. Jessica sent a message afterward: “Thank you for trusting us, Mom. Lucas and I will always take care of you.”
That was the last time she called me Mom.
In the months after that, everything got strange. Lucas stopped answering my calls the way he used to. When he did answer, the conversations were short, cold. Jessica didn’t even pretend kindness anymore. When I saw her, she treated me like a stranger.
Six months ago, I stopped seeing Leo completely.
“He’s in a difficult stage,” Jessica told me. “It’s better when he grows a little more.”
That was all they said.
And now, telling all of this to Margaret at her kitchen table, cold tea between my hands, I finally understood.
Jessica had planned it from the beginning.
From the day she met Lucas and realized his mother had a paid-off apartment in a good part of the city, she studied me. She charmed me. She earned my trust. She waited.
And when she had everything secured, she discarded me like I was nothing.
And Lucas—my Lucas—let it happen.
Margaret listened without interrupting. When I finished, she had tears in her eyes.
“That woman is cruel,” she whispered. “And Lucas… Lucas is weak.”
“He’s my son,” I said, and my voice broke. “And he did this.”
“You can’t defend him just because he’s your child,” Margaret said, fierce. “He let her use you and throw you away.”
She was right.
But it hurt to admit it. It hurt to accept that the boy I carried through fevers, the teenager who cried in my arms after heartbreak, the young man I applauded at graduation… could stand behind a locked door and let me sit on the hallway floor.
The next day, I received a message from an unknown number.
“Mrs. Eleanor, this is Jessica. Lucas and I have talked. We understand this is difficult for you, but it was a necessary decision. We are willing to offer you $5,000 as compensation for the inconvenience. It is a generous offer considering legally we owe you nothing. You have one week to decide. After that, the offer is withdrawn.”
Five thousand dollars for an apartment worth at least $250,000.
For twenty years of payments.
For my home.
I showed the message to Robert that afternoon. He read it, shook his head.
“It’s insulting,” he said. “But legally, Mrs. Eleanor, we can’t force them to do more. I explained: the transfer was done. If you reject the offer, you could receive nothing.”
I couldn’t sleep that night.
$5,000 divided by twelve months was $417 a month. Added to my pension of $400, that made $817 monthly.
I couldn’t rent even a studio in a decent area with that money, much less eat, pay for utilities, or medicine.
The next morning, Margaret entered my room with the newspaper.
“Look,” she said. “There are studios for rent in Oakwood. Not fancy, but safe. $800 a month.”
“Margaret,” I whispered, “I don’t have $800 a month. I’ll barely have that total.”
“Then we get them to lower it,” she said. “Or you work.”
“A job,” I repeated, almost laughing from disbelief. “I’m seventy. Who hires seventy-year-old women?”
“You were a nurse,” Margaret said. “Clinics, hospitals, private homes. People need caregivers.”
The idea of going back to full-time work terrified me. But the alternative was worse: being dependent on Margaret, ending up in a shelter, or sleeping somewhere I wouldn’t survive.
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