But then, would a good son do what Robert had done to me?
I looked at the photo on my phone’s home screen.
Robert at his college graduation—his arm around me, both of us beaming.
That young man seemed like a stranger now.
Or perhaps I was the stranger, finally seeing clearly what he’d become.
Tomorrow, they would receive the eviction notice.
Tomorrow, the real battle would begin.
I’d spent my whole life avoiding conflict, keeping peace, being accommodating.
Look where that had gotten me.
No more.
The process server delivered the notice at 9:07 a.m.
I know because Robert called at 9:09, screaming so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“You’re evicting us? Your own son? What kind of mother are you?”
I hung up.
Daniel had been explicit.
No engagement.
Let the law handle it.
But Robert and Jessica weren’t planning to go quietly.
At 11:00 a.m., I received an email from an attorney I’d never heard of—Marcus Patterson—apparently representing my son.
The letter was filled with legal threats, claims that they’d been paying rent in cash, assertions that they’d made improvements to the property that entitled them to compensation, even a suggestion that I was mentally incompetent and that they’d been caring for me out of concern for my well-being.
Every word was a lie.
I forwarded it to Daniel, hands trembling.
Within an hour, he called back.
“Margaret, this is intimidation, nothing more. They have no proof because none of this is true. We’ll respond formally, but I need you to stay calm. This is exactly what I warned you about. It’s getting ugly.”
“Can they really claim I’m mentally incompetent?”
“They can claim anything. Proving it is another matter. Has a doctor ever diagnosed you with any cognitive issues?”
“No. I’m perfectly healthy.”
“Then this is an empty threat.”
“But Margaret,” he paused, “document everything. Every interaction. Record calls if Colorado law allows it—which it does, since we’re a one-party consent state. Save every text, every email. If they’re going to make false claims, we need evidence to counter them.”
That afternoon, Jessica showed up at my hotel.
I watched from my window as she crossed the parking lot, her face set in grim determination.
How did she even know where I was staying?
She knocked on my door.
I didn’t answer.
“Margaret, I know you’re in there. We need to talk.”
Her voice was reasonable, controlled.
“This has gone too far. Robert is having a breakdown. He’s your son. Don’t you care about him?”
I remained silent, heart pounding.
“Fine.”
Her voice hardened.
“You want to play hardball? Robert’s been having health problems—stress-related. If anything happens to him, it’s on you.”
A pause.
“Also, we’ve documented everything. Every time you’ve been confused, forgetful, aggressive. We have witnesses who will testify that you’ve been declining mentally for months. You’ll never win this.”
All lies.
But fear gripped me anyway.
Could they really convince people I was incompetent?
I called Daniel the moment her footsteps faded.
“They’re trying to build a case that I’m mentally unfit.”
“Then we’ll get you evaluated immediately. I know a geriatric psychiatrist who does competency evaluations. If you’re willing, we can have documentation proving your mental fitness within a week. It’ll cost about $1,500, but it’ll destroy their entire argument.”
“Do it.”
The evaluation happened three days later.
Dr. Sarah Wittmann was thorough—memory tests, cognitive assessments, mental status examinations—two hours of questions and puzzles and assessments.
At the end, she smiled.
“Mrs. Anderson, you’re sharper than most 50-year-olds I evaluate. There is absolutely no evidence of cognitive decline. Your memory is excellent. Your reasoning is sound. And you show no signs of any mental health issues beyond appropriate stress responses to a difficult situation.”
I nearly cried with relief.
But Robert and Jessica weren’t finished.
They began a social media campaign.
Jessica posted on Facebook about elder abuse, claiming that I’d abandoned my son, that I was refusing to help my struggling family, that I was cold and heartless.
She twisted everything, making herself and Robert the victims.
Some of our extended family began calling me, confused and concerned.
I didn’t respond publicly.
Daniel advised against it.
“Don’t engage on social media. Let them spin their narrative. When we get to court, facts will matter, not Facebook posts.”
Then came the text messages from Jessica’s mother in California.
“I don’t know what you’ve told Jessica, but threatening to make us homeless is despicable. We’re selling our house to move there. If you ruin this for us, you’ll regret it.”
They’d involved her parents without telling them the truth.
Of course, the threats escalated.
Robert left a voicemail claiming he’d sue me for financial elder abuse—for coercing him into letting me pay his bills.
Jessica sent emails threatening to file for guardianship over me.
Their attorney sent another letter, this one threatening a countersuit for unlawful eviction and emotional distress.
Each threat was hollow, Daniel assured me.
But they wore me down like waves against stone.
Two weeks after serving the eviction notice, I realized I was exhausted.
The constant fighting, the threats, the stress—it was taking a physical toll.
My blood pressure was up.
I wasn’t sleeping.
I’d lost eight pounds.
Daniel noticed during our weekly meeting.
“Margaret, you need to take a break. Step back for a few days. The legal process moves slowly. Use that time to take care of yourself.”
He was right.
I was running on fumes and fury.
I turned off my phone for three days.
I got a massage.
I went to the botanical gardens and sat among the roses, letting the sun warm my face.
I read a novel for the first time in months.
I let myself simply breathe.
When I turned my phone back on, there were 47 messages.
I deleted them all without reading them.
I was ready for whatever came next.
The call came from an unexpected source.
Robert’s older sister—my daughter Linda.
We’d been close once before she moved to Oregon fifteen years ago. Life and distance had created a gap between us, but she was still my daughter.
“Mom, what the hell is going on?” Linda’s voice was sharp, but concerned.
“Jessica called me crying, saying, ‘You’ve abandoned Robert and are trying to make them homeless.’ Is that true?”
I took a breath and told her everything—the truth.
Every detail.
Every payment.
Every moment leading to that afternoon when my son told me to pack my things.
Linda listened in silence.
When I finished, she said quietly, “Oh, Mom. I had no idea. Jessica made it sound like you’d just lost it—like you’d become paranoid and unreasonable. That’s what they’re telling everyone.”
“I believe you, Mom. I know Robert. I love him. But I also know he can be weak. If Jessica’s pushing him, he’ll follow. He always does.”
She paused.
“What do you need?”
That simple question brought tears to my eyes.
What did I need?
Support.
Just support.
“Everyone else seems to believe their version.”
“Not everyone,” Linda said firmly. “I’ll start making calls. Aunt Catherine, Cousin Tom—the family who actually knows you will get the truth out there.”
True to her word, Linda became my advocate.
She called family members, explained the situation, sent them copies of my bank statements showing the money I’d paid.
Slowly, the tide began to shift.
Aunt Catherine called to express her outrage.
Cousin Tom offered to drive down and talk some sense into Robert.
Even my sister-in-law from my late husband’s side reached out.
“David would be ashamed of Robert right now.”
The family support felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
But Robert and Jessica weren’t done trying to manipulate me.
Five days after my deliberate rest period, a letter arrived at my hotel.
Not from their attorney.
From Robert himself.
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