Chapter 2 - The Folder With Sophie's Name
My study had always been my favorite room.
Thomas built the bookshelves himself.
They were slightly crooked.
I never fixed them.
Perfection is overrated, particularly when the imperfections were made by someone you loved.
Sophie followed me inside.
On my oak desk sat the folder I had collected from attorney Margaret Lawson three days earlier.
I picked it up and handed it to her.
"Open it."
Sophie laughed nervously.
"Grandma, you're being mysterious."
"Humor an old woman."
She untied the red string.
The first document was six pages.
She read the heading.
Then she stopped smiling.
She turned another page.
Then another.
"Grandma..."
"Keep reading."
Her eyes widened.
"This is a deed transfer."
"Yes."
She looked at the next document.
"And a trust."
"Yes."
She looked at me.
Then back at the papers.
Her finger moved down the page.
Suddenly she froze.
"No."
"What?"
"It says..."
She looked at me again.
"The beneficiary is Sophie Miller."
I said nothing.
"The property transferred last week."
"Correct."
She stared around the room as if seeing the house for the first time.
"Grandma..."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You gave me your house?"
"I transferred ownership into an irrevocable trust with you as beneficiary."
"That's basically giving me your house."
"Basically."
She immediately pushed the papers toward me.
"No."
I smiled.
"That's an unusual response to free real estate."
"I can't accept this."
"You already have."
Her mouth opened.
"Grandma!"
"Read clause four."
She did.
Her expression slowly changed.
"Lifetime tenancy."
"Exactly."
"You stay here?"
"Until I die."
"And nobody can sell it?"
"Not while I am alive."
"Nobody can mortgage it?"
"No."
"Not even me?"
"Especially not you."
Despite herself, she laughed.
Then she began crying.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She crossed the room and knelt beside my chair.
"You should have told me."
"If I'd told you earlier, you would've argued."
"I am arguing!"
"Too late."
She hugged me.
For several minutes neither of us spoke.
Eventually she sat on the floor beside my chair.
"Why me?"
That was the question I had expected.
"Because your grandfather and I bought this house to build a family. Not to create a retirement account for somebody else."
"Mom isn't that bad."
I gave her a look.
"She isn't evil."
That surprised her.
"But she's controlling."
"Yes."
"And she thinks control is the same thing as love."
Sophie looked down.
I continued.
"For two years, Monica has talked about this neighborhood becoming valuable."
Sophie nodded slowly.
"She does talk about your property a lot."
"She asked me three times whether the deed was still in my name."
"What?"
"She called it estate planning."
Sophie looked uncomfortable.
"Did Dad know?"
"I don't know how much he knew."
That hurt to admit.
David had always been gentle.
Perhaps too gentle.
As a boy, he avoided arguments by disappearing into his bedroom.
As a husband, apparently, he handled conflict the same way.
"He loves you," Sophie said.
"I know."
"Then why would he agree to this?"
"That's something he will have to answer."
I looked toward the framed photograph on my desk.
David at age nine.
Missing front tooth.
Baseball cap too large.
Thomas standing behind him.
People were complicated.
A person could love you and still fail you.
That lesson did not become less painful merely because you were eighty.
Sophie touched the trust documents.
"Ryan and I talked about moving in together."
"I gathered that from the flying cake."
She groaned.
"I cannot believe I did that."
"My wallpaper won't forget either."
She laughed through her tears.
Then her face became serious.
"Ryan and I can't afford a house."
"I know."
"Rent is ridiculous."
"I know."
"Mom offered to help with an apartment."
"Under conditions?"
She looked away.
That answered my question.
"What conditions?"
"That we wait until after the wedding. That she approves the neighborhood. That Ryan takes a different job."
I closed my eyes.
"Of course."
"She thinks she's helping."
"Sometimes help becomes a leash."
Sophie looked at the papers again.
"What happens tomorrow?"
"Your parents return."
"You know that?"
"They will."
"How?"
"Because Monica believes the conversation isn't finished."
I was right.
At ten o'clock the next morning, the doorbell rang.
I opened it.
David stood on the porch with a cardboard tray of coffee.
Monica stood beside him carrying glossy brochures.
SILVER OAKS MEADOW.
The smiling seniors on the cover looked suspiciously enthusiastic about shuffleboard.
"Morning," David said.
"Good morning."
Monica stepped past me.
"We need to move quickly. The tour is at eleven."
I closed the door.
"Do we?"
"The director is expecting us."
"That sounds unfortunate for the director."
She ignored me.
"We can measure the master bedroom this afternoon. I spoke with an estate auction service—"
"Already?"
Monica stopped.
David looked embarrassed.
"Mom—"
"Living room."
They followed.
Sophie was already sitting on the sofa.
Monica frowned.
"Why are you still here?"
"Good morning to you too."
"Sophie, this is private."
"Sophie stays," I said.
David put the coffee down.
"Mom, please. We aren't trying to hurt you."
"What are you trying to do?"
"Keep you safe."
"By selling my house?"
"The money would pay for your care."
Monica nodded.
"The property could sell for close to eight hundred thousand."
I raised my eyebrows.
"You've researched it."
"We're being practical."
"How thoughtful."
David sat opposite me.
"You'll have money left afterward."
"For what?"
"A nest egg."
I looked at Monica.
"A nest egg for whom?"
Her expression hardened.
"For the family."
There it was.
Not for me.
For the family.
"You're eighty," she continued. "You need to stop thinking only about yourself."
Sophie inhaled sharply.
David whispered, "Monica."
But I simply reached toward the coffee table.
The red-string folder was waiting.
I slid it across the glass.
"What is this?" Monica asked.
"Current property records."
She opened it.
David leaned closer.
For five seconds, nobody spoke.
Then the brochures slipped from Monica's hand.
"What?"
David grabbed the documents.
"Mom..."
Monica stood.
"What did you do?"
"I planned my future."
Her face changed.
"You transferred the house?"
"Yes."
"To Sophie?"
"Yes."
"WHEN?"
"Last Tuesday."
"That's impossible."
"No. Margaret Lawson is quite competent."
Monica turned toward Sophie.
"You knew!"
"Since last night."
"You manipulated her!"
Sophie stood.
"No."
"This is our inheritance!"
I rose slowly.
The room became very quiet.
"My home was never your retirement plan."
Monica stared at me.
"You can't do this."
"I already did."
"Evelyn, you're eighty. Sophie is twenty-two. You expect everyone to believe you suddenly handed over an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar property?"
I studied her face.
That sentence interested me.
Not because of the anger.
Because of the wording.
"You expect everyone to believe..."
I had heard enough courtroom dramas to recognize a threat hiding inside a question.
David looked equally alarmed.
"Monica."
But she was already gathering the documents.
"I think we need another opinion."
"Those are copies," I said.
She froze.
"The originals are with my attorney."
Her eyes narrowed.
For the first time since she entered my house, Monica looked uncertain.
Then she smiled.
It wasn't a pleasant smile.
"Good," she said. "Because I think your attorney may be hearing from ours."
She dropped the papers.
Picked up her purse.
And walked toward the door.
David followed slowly.
Before leaving, he turned toward me.
"Mom, what have you done?"
I looked at him.
"No, David."
My voice was quiet.
"What did you allow your wife to do?"
His face fell.
Then he left.
Sophie stood beside me as their car disappeared down the street.
"You think Mom will actually challenge the trust?"
I didn't answer immediately.
I looked at the red folder.
Then at the Silver Oaks brochures scattered across my carpet.
"Sweetheart," I said, "your mother just discovered that eight hundred thousand dollars disappeared from a future she had already spent in her imagination."
I gathered the brochures.
"She isn't finished."
I was right.
Because twenty-four hours later, my attorney called.
And the first sentence out of her mouth was:
May you like
"Evelyn, Monica has hired a lawyer."
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