Sophie nodded, glancing at the old furniture and wallpaper. “You’ve kept everything just the same.”
“I like things this way,” I said. “It feels like home.”
“Of course,” she replied, with that polite tone again.
After dinner, I caught her whispering something to Mark, her eyes still moving around the living room. She smiled when she noticed me looking, but there was something calculating behind that smile. I told myself not to overthink.
Maybe she just needed time to adjust. Maybe living together would finally help us understand each other. Back then, I couldn’t imagine how wrong I was.
At first, the changes were small: a new vase, different plates, new curtains. I told myself not to overthink it. Maybe Sophie just wanted to help, make the place feel cozier.
But then it didn’t stop. My old dishes vanished, the floral cushions were gone, a modern rug appeared that clashed with everything. I tried to stay positive.
“You have a good eye,” I told her once. “Maybe we could go shopping together?”
She laughed lightly. “Oh, that’s sweet, but I think I’ve got it covered.
You probably wouldn’t know what’s in style now.”
Her words stung, though I pretended not to care. Mark heard it all and stayed silent, as always. A week later, I came home from the grocery store to find Sophie painting the living room walls beige.
The smell hit me so hard I had to open every window. “Could you at least warn me next time?” I said. “This smell makes me dizzy.”
“It’s non-toxic,” Sophie said.
“You’ll survive.”
Mark was sitting on the couch. “She’s just trying to make things nicer, Mom,” he mumbled. “For whom?” I asked, but he didn’t answer.
The next day, two delivery men carried in a new couch without a word to me. My old one, the one I’d bought when Mark was ten and fell asleep on every Christmas Eve, was gone. Just gone.
I stood there in shock as Sophie handed the men cash and smiled. “What happened to my sofa?” I asked. “It was falling apart,” she said casually.
“This one looks better. Don’t you think it makes the room feel bigger?”
“You could’ve at least asked me first,” I said. She shrugged.
“Mark and I want you to feel comfortable here, and the house needed an update. You should be happy we’re investing our money in it.”
That part confused me the most. Why was she spending their savings redecorating my home when they said they were trying to buy their own?
The air in the house grew heavier every day. Sophie was always around, changing something, rearranging shelves, moving my photos, tossing out little things I’d had for years. Every trace of my life seemed to be slowly disappearing.
Then one afternoon, Chloe returned from her vacation and promised to stop by for tea. I was genuinely looking forward to seeing her. Someone who didn’t talk to me like I was an old piece of furniture.
When the doorbell rang, I was still in the kitchen. Before I could get to the door, I heard Sophie’s voice, sharp, irritated. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Hi, I’m Chloe. I’m a friend of Natalie’s. I just came to visit her.”
“Oh, well, Natalie doesn’t need any help anymore,” Sophie replied flatly.
“We take care of her now.”
Before Chloe could respond, I heard the door slam. My heart sank. I stepped into the hallway just as Sophie turned around.
“Who was that?” I asked. She didn’t blink. “Just some kids selling cookies.”
I stared at her, speechless, surrounded by furniture I didn’t recognize, colors I hadn’t chosen.
Something inside told me Sophie’s plans for this house had nothing to do with making it prettier. One morning, Mark came into the kitchen and said, “Mom, want to come to the store with me today?”
I looked up from my cup of coffee, surprised. “You?
Taking me grocery shopping? What happened to you and Sophie going together?”
“Just thought we could spend some time together.”
It had been a while since we’d done anything like that, so I agreed. Maybe he really wanted to reconnect.
But when we got in the car, I noticed he drove past our usual store. “Mark, you missed the turn,” I said. “We’ll go to another one,” he replied quickly.
“That one’s better.”
“It’s almost an hour away,” I said. “I like their selection more.”
The ride was quiet. Mark was fidgety, checking his phone too often.
In the store, he walked slowly, lingering at every aisle. “Mark, is there a reason you’re taking so long?” I finally asked. “Just want to make sure we get everything.”
By the time we got home, I was exhausted.
But as soon as I stepped inside, I felt something strange, the air too still, the rooms too neat, like someone had rushed to erase a mess. On the entry table lay a small notebook that wasn’t mine. Probably Sophie’s, I thought, and ignored it.
That night, unable to sleep, I got up for water. Passing Mark and Sophie’s room, I froze. Their door was half open, and I heard whispers inside.
“We need to do it soon,” Sophie said. “I know,” Mark whispered back. “But we can’t just force her into the car.”
They fell silent after that, but those words kept echoing in my head: force her into the car.
The next morning, while they were out, I sat in the living room, trying to steady my hands.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore; something was wrong. I walked into Sophie’s room and opened her laptop. The screen lit up, and there it was, a real estate listing with photos of my house.
My house. Price, description: “charming family home in a quiet neighborhood.”
When I clicked on another tab, it opened a website for a senior living facility. Photos of cheerful elderly people smiling at each other over puzzles and tea.
My stomach turned. I grabbed my phone and called Emily. “Sweetheart,” I said, “Mark and Sophie… they’re planning to sell my house.
They want to send me to a retirement home!”
Emily sighed heavily on the other end. “Mom, you’ve said yourself, it’s hard living alone. The house is too big for one person.
If they sell it, I’ll have my share of the money, they’ll buy their home, and you’ll be well taken care of.”
“You knew?” I whispered. “You’ll have people to talk to, activities, care—”
“Care?” I interrupted. “I don’t need care!
I need my home, my life! How could you all do this to me?”
“Mom, please don’t be dramatic. You’ll just have to sign a few papers,” she said.
That was the last thing I heard before I hung up. My children, my own children, had decided my life for me. I ran next door and banged on Chloe’s door.
When she opened it, one look at me was enough. “What happened?” she asked. “They want to sell my house,” I said, breathless.
“And send me away.”
Her eyes widened. “What?!”
“Help me,” I said. “Please.”
Together we packed Mark and Sophie’s things — boxes, clothes, even that new couch I’d never liked.
We dragged everything onto the front lawn. Then I called a locksmith and had the locks changed. That evening, Chloe and I sat in the kitchen, sipping tea, when pounding erupted on the door.
“Mom! Open up!” Mark shouted. “Let us in!” Sophie yelled.
“What the hell did you do?”
I stood, but I didn’t open the door. “I know everything!” I shouted through it. “You really thought you could sell my house and dump me in some nursing home?!”
“Mom, it’s not as bad as it sounds!”
“Don’t you dare call me Mom right now!” I yelled.
“Get off my porch! I don’t ever want to see either of you again!”
Silence followed, then footsteps fading away. I sank back into my chair, shaking but strangely calm.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Emily was calling. I pressed “decline.”
Chloe reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“I’m so sorry, Natalie,” she said softly. “You don’t deserve this.”
I nodded, tears burning my eyes. “It’s all right.
I still have my home… and at least someone who cares.”
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