PART 2 — THE BETRAYAL HIDDEN IN MY OWN HOME
“No,” I repeated, holding the folder tightly against my chest.
Bridget stared at me.
For four years, she had been telling me what to do.
But this time, I wasn’t backing down.
“Eleanor, give me that folder.”
I shook my head.
“Not until you explain why my house is being sold.”
Her face turned pale.
“You’re confused. Those papers belong to Curtis.”
“Then why is my name on them?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her phone was still connected to my son.
I could hear Curtis calling her name.
“Bridget? What’s happening?”
I stepped closer.
“Curtis, your wife has been trying to sell my house.”
There was silence.
Then he said something that broke my heart.
“Mom, please. We were going to explain everything.”
We.
That one word told me everything.
My own son knew.
I looked at the house Walter and I had bought in 1974.
The house where Curtis took his first steps.
The house where we celebrated birthdays, Christmases, and forty-two wedding anniversaries.
And now my son was helping someone take it away.
“How long have you known?” I whispered.
“Mom, it’s complicated.”
“How long, Curtis?”
Another silence.
“Six months.”
I felt something inside me break.
Six months.
While I cooked his favorite dinners.
While I asked about his work.
While I thanked Bridget for helping me around the house.
They had been planning my future without me.
Bridget suddenly reached for the folder.
“Enough of this!”
I pulled it away.
And that was when Ronnie appeared.
“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”
He stood beside his truck, holding his phone.
Bridget immediately changed her voice.
“Oh, thank goodness! Ronnie, Eleanor is having one of her episodes.”
Ronnie looked at me.
“Miss Eleanor, are you feeling all right?”
“Better than I have in four years.”
He smiled slightly.
Bridget didn’t.
“I think we should call the police,” she snapped.
“Excellent idea,” I answered.
Her smile disappeared.
I opened the folder.
The first document was a real estate listing.
My address was printed across the top.
Underneath were photographs of my kitchen, living room, and bedroom.
Someone had taken pictures of my entire home.
Without asking me.
The asking price was $485,000.
But the price wasn’t what frightened me.
It was the sentence printed near the bottom.
“PROPERTY WILL BE VACANT UPON CLOSING.”
Vacant.
As if I didn’t exist.
I looked at Bridget.
“Where were you planning to put me?”
She crossed her arms.
“Fairview is a wonderful assisted living facility.”
“I don’t need assisted living.”
“You can barely walk without your walker.”
“I can walk well enough to know when someone is stealing from me.”
Her face hardened.
“You have no idea how much Curtis needs this money.”
I turned toward the phone.
“Is that true, son?”
Curtis sighed.
“Mom, we have some debts.”
“What kind of debts?”
“Business problems.”
“How much?”
He hesitated.
“Almost three hundred thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
My son had lost money.
And instead of asking for help, he had decided to sell the home his father left behind.
But then I noticed something strange.
The buyer wasn’t an ordinary family.
It was a company called Westbridge Property Holdings.
And the offer had already been signed.
By me.
Except I had never signed it.
I stared at the signature.
It looked almost perfect.
My name.
My handwriting.
Even the little curve I always made under the last letter.
“Bridget,” I said quietly.
She looked away.
“Who signed this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Curtis handled the paperwork.”
My stomach dropped.
My own son had forged my signature.
Before I could say another word, my phone rang.
It was Rosalind.
“Eleanor, are you alone?”
“No. Bridget is here.”
“Then listen carefully. I’ve found something.”
Her voice sounded frightened.
And Rosalind Pike was not easily frightened.
“What is it?”
“The attorney checked the county records this morning.”
I gripped the phone.
“And?”
“Someone has already transferred your house into a trust.”
My heart began pounding.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know. But Eleanor, there’s something worse.”
I looked at Bridget.
She was watching me now.
Carefully.
Almost nervously.
“What could be worse?”
Rosalind lowered her voice.
“The trust has been receiving money for nearly two years.”
I frowned.
“Receiving money from whom?”
“That’s what we’re trying to understand.”
“Who owns the trust?”
There was a long pause.
Then Rosalind said something I never expected.
“Eleanor, the beneficiary is someone you know.”
“Who?”
“Someone who was declared dead eleven years ago.”
My hands went cold.
There was only one person I could think of.
My husband’s younger brother.
Thomas Whitcomb.
Thomas had supposedly died in a boating accident eleven years earlier.
We had attended his funeral.
I had watched Curtis carry his uncle’s coffin.
And Walter had cried for three days.
“Rosalind,” I whispered.
“Please tell me you’re mistaken.”
“I wish I could, honey.”
I slowly turned toward Bridget.
Her expression had changed.
She wasn’t angry anymore.
She looked terrified.
“Bridget,” I said.
“Why is Thomas Whitcomb’s name on the trust?”
She took a step backward.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But her trembling hands told another story.
Then Curtis spoke through the phone.
His voice was barely audible.
“Mom, please don’t tell anyone about Thomas.”
I stopped breathing.
“Why?”
He hesitated.
And then he said the six words that changed everything.
“Because Uncle Thomas is still alive.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3…
