Silence. A long silence filled with the sound of the waves I could hear in the background. They were at the beach under expensive umbrellas while I was supposed to be sweating in the garden.
“What do you mean it’s not an error?”
“I mean, I canled all the cards. I froze all the joint accounts. I revoked all the authorizations you had.”
Another silence. This one heavier than the last.
“Mom, you can’t do that. We depend on that money.”
“We,” as if we were partners. As if they had worked a single day on this farm to earn that money.
“And whose money do you think that is, David?”
“It’s family money. You can’t just leave us stranded here.”
Family. That word they had been using to manipulate me for months. Family when they needed money. Family when they wanted me to sign papers. But not family when they were planning to sell my house and lock me in a nursing home.
“David, come home. All of you right now.”
“We can’t come. We don’t have money for gas.”
“Then walk or borrow or do whatever you have to do, but come home.”
I hung up before he could answer.
My hands didn’t tremble this time. I felt strangely calm, like when the shock wears off after an accident and you realize you’re still alive.
