My Son Thought I'd Blown Through the Lottery Money

My son thought I'd blown through the lottery money, and a week later his wife stood in my own front hall and gave me seven days to get out. She had already boxed up my mother's china by the fireplace and typed the notice on my own printer, and my son stood at the bottom of my staircase and never said one word. What neither of them ever bothered to read was the blue folder they both signed seven years ago, the day I handed them the keys to a house on the river. I spent thirty-one years writing down what people say out loud. They should have asked me why.