I invited my son and his wife to dinner for Christmas. I gave him a BMW and her a designer handbag. My son then smiled slyly and said, « Mom, my wife thinks it’s time I taught you a lesson. Don’t expect any more gifts from us. »

I met their gaze calmly. « Good, » I said. « Because I have one last gift for you. »

Daniel frowned as I took a sealed envelope from my bag and slid it onto the table. Something in my voice made him uncomfortable. He opened it and, as his eyes scanned the page, his hands began to tremble.

Inside was a copy of the legal documents I’d finalized two weeks earlier: an official deed of transfer of ownership of my house—the very one Daniel and Olivia thought would one day belong to them—to my younger sister, Claire. For months, they’d hinted that they fully intended to « inherit the house, » and that it was « perfectly logical » to them. I’d dismissed their words as mere talk. Until I overheard a conversation that would change everything.

Three weeks earlier, during a visit to their house, I had gone back to get a scarf I had forgotten. As I passed the office, I heard Olivia’s sharp voice through the half-open door:
« Your mother needs to stop thinking she can buy respect. She’s old, lonely, and starved for attention. Keep pushing, she’ll eventually give up the house. »

Daniel did not object. He sighed and replied, « I’m working on it. »

Those words stuck in my throat. I never dared confront them. I didn’t want an argument. So, I called my lawyer. I revised my will, updated my estate planning, and transferred the deed; everything was finalized well before Christmas.