At Dinner, My Son Shouted: “Either You Give My Wife Your Room Or Start Packing!”
“I’m not going to argue about this. The answer is no.”
“Mom,”
Mark said, changing his tone, now softer, more manipulative.
“I know you’ve been stressed lately. I know I might have said things I shouldn’t have at dinner. But we’re family. Families help each other.”
“Families respect each other,”
I replied.
“And you haven’t respected me in a long time.”
“That’s not true!”
“No?”
I asked.
“What do you call shouting at me to pack my bags if I don’t give you my room? Respect?”
“I already apologized for that!”
He was lying; he hadn’t. He had never said it, but I knew inventing it was his way of getting out of the conversation.
“No, Mark, you didn’t apologize. You didn’t even acknowledge you did it.”
Jessica intervened with that victim-like voice she knew how to use so well.
“Eleanor, we are really in a difficult situation. We have nowhere to go. Are you really going to turn your back on us?”
“You are adults with jobs,”
I replied.
“You can rent another place. You can get a loan. You can do what millions of people do when they need housing.”
“But you’re his mother!”
Jessica insisted.
“Mothers are supposed to help!”
“And I did,”
I said, getting up from the armchair.
“I helped for 42 years. I paid for your college, Mark. I bought you your first car. I loaned you money for the wedding. I’ve helped you with rent more times than I can count. I’ve helped enough.”
“I can’t believe you’re being this way,”
Mark said with a trembling voice, pretending to be on the verge of tears.
“My own mother, denying me a roof over my head.”
“I’m not denying you a roof,”
I said, walking toward the stairs.
“I’m denying you my roof. There’s a difference.”
Drawing the Line
I went up to my room, the guest room, and closed the door. I heard Mark and Jessica talking downstairs, their voices rising in volume. I heard stray words: ungrateful, unthankful, selfish, bitter old woman.
I sat on the bed and opened my phone. I texted Sharon.
“It just happened. They asked to move in. I told them no.”
She replied with an audio message; her voice sounded proud.
“Eleanor Vance, you are my hero! How did they take it?”
“As expected,”
I wrote.
“They called me selfish.”
“Oh, please,”
Sharon replied in another audio.
“selfish is what they’ve been to you their entire lives. You’re just setting boundaries. That’s not selfishness; it’s survival.”
I smiled at the screen.
“Thanks, Sharon.”
That night Mark and Jessica went out without telling me where. They came back late, after midnight. I heard them come up the stairs, go into my old room, and close the door harder than necessary.
On Sunday morning I woke up early as usual. I went down to the kitchen and made coffee just for myself. I no longer made breakfast for everyone; I no longer set the table for three. I just served my own cup, my toast, my fruit.
Mark came down around 11:00 looking like he hadn’t slept well. He saw me sitting at the table reading the news on my tablet and said nothing. He went straight to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, and stood leaning against the counter staring at me.
“What?”
I asked without looking up.
“Nothing,”
he said.
“I’m just wondering what happened to you.”
“What happened to me?”
I repeated.
“Yeah. You used to be different. You used to care about your family.”
I put the tablet down on the table and looked at him directly.
“I used to care so much about my family that I forgot about myself. That’s the difference.”
He snorted.
“That sounds like something you read in a cheap self-help book.”
“It sounds like something I should have understood 30 years ago.”
I replied. Mark slammed his mug down on the counter.
“You know what, Mom? Do whatever you want! You’ve always done what you wanted anyway!”
I laughed. It was a short, almost bitter laugh.
“Mark, if I had done what I wanted, I would have traveled the world when your father died. I would have gotten the Master’s degree I always wanted. I would have lived alone peacefully. But no, I stayed here taking care of you, helping you, waiting for you to value me just a little.”
“I do value you!”
he said, but without conviction.
“No, Mark. You use me. And there’s a huge difference between valuing and using.”
He fell silent. He had no answer for that because he knew it was true. Jessica came down a few minutes later, already dressed, with perfect makeup and that air of superiority she always carried.
“Good morning,”
she said without looking at me.
“Good morning,”
I replied. She poured herself coffee and sat next to Mark. They both ignored me, talking to each other in low voices as if I wasn’t there.
“Eleanor,”
Jessica said suddenly.
“we need to use your car today. Ours is having problems.”
“No.”
I said.
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean I’m not lending you my car.”
“And how are we supposed to get around?”
Mark asked.
“In a taxi. In an Uber. You can walk like everyone else.”
Jessica let out a dry laugh.
“Unbelievable! First you won’t let us stay here, and now you won’t even lend us the car! What’s next? Are you going to charge us for the air we breathe in your house?”
“If you want, you can leave right now and breathe the air somewhere else.”
I said, unfazed. Mark slammed his hand on the table.
“Enough! That’s enough, Mom! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this is too much!”
“What’s gotten into me, Mark, is that I’m tired. I’m tired of being invisible. I’m tired of being treated like a maid. I’m tired of you assuming that everything I own is yours.”
“Nobody assumes that!”
Jessica lied.
“No?”
I asked.
“Then tell me Jessica, why are you sleeping in my bedroom? Why are you using my kitchen as if it’s yours? Why do you assume I’m going to pay for your parties and lend you my things?”
She opened her mouth but said nothing. I got up from the table, washed my mug, and left the kitchen. I went up to my room and locked the door.
The Point of No Return
I sat on the bed and took several deep breaths. My phone buzzed. It was a message from the real estate agent.
“Miss Vance, the young couple who came on Wednesday wants to make an offer. $315,000. Are you interested?”
I replied immediately.
“Yes. I accept.”
“Perfect,”
he wrote.
“I’ll prepare the papers. We can close the sale in a week.”
One week. In one week, this house would no longer be mine and Mark had no idea. That afternoon, while they were upstairs, I went down to the living room and started packing things discreetly.
Photos I really wanted to keep, books that mattered to me, documents. I put everything in boxes that I hid in the guest room. Mark and Jessica didn’t notice a thing.
They were too busy with their own drama. On Monday morning, while Mark and Jessica were still sleeping, I left the house with three boxes in the car. I took them to a storage unit I had rented the week before.
It was a small space, just enough to hold the essentials until I moved to the beach house permanently. The employee at the storage facility helped me register my name and handed me the keys.
“Are you moving a lot of things?”
she asked kindly.
“Just the important stuff,”
I replied. I returned home before noon. Mark was in the living room with his laptop, working from the sofa. He watched me come in but said nothing.
I went straight up to my temporary room and continued organizing. That afternoon I got a message from Susan.
“Eleanor, the buyer for your house wants to move up the closing. They can be ready by Thursday. Does that work for you?”
I stared at the message for several seconds. Thursday. Three days. In three days this house would officially stop being mine.
“Perfect,”
I wrote.
“Thursday is fine.”
I immediately called Sharon.
“I need you to come with me on Thursday to sign the sale of the house.”
“I’ll be there,”
she said without hesitation.
“Do you know when you’re moving to the beach?”
“Friday,”
I replied.
“I’m signing the sale on Thursday, and on Friday I’m gone.”
“And Mark?”
“Mark is going to find out on Thursday night, when it’s too late to turn back.”
Sharon was quiet for a moment.
“Are you sure you want to do it that way?”
“Completely sure,”
