had never imagined she would turn my home into an income source without telling me.
“There’s something else,” Nadia said.
She opened the final page of the agreement.
Beneath the signature claiming to be mine was a witness signature.
Caleb Weller.
My son.
I knew his handwriting instantly.
I had watched him learn to write that name at our kitchen table when he was six years old.
Now I was looking at it on a document that falsely suggested I had surrendered control of my house.
I pressed my palms together beneath the desk.
“I want to go back,” I said.
“We will,” Nadia replied.
“But we’re going back with the facts.”
At 6:20 p.m., we returned to Sandpiper House.
The late sunlight made the porch railing glow pale gold.
Music drifted through the open windows, and someone was laughing beside the grill.
Mallory came down the steps when she saw Nadia’s folder.
“Seriously, Iris? You brought a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“This is unbelievable.
We’re family.”
“That didn’t seem important when you told me to get a hotel.”
Her mother appeared behind her.
“Iris, you’re seventy-one years old.
Is all this excitement really good for you?”
Nadia looked at Denise.
“Mrs.
Weller is fully capable of making decisions about her property.
I’m here because she’s asked me to represent her.”
Denise retreated into silence.
A woman in her fifties approached from the deck, holding a cream-colored welcome booklet.
She introduced herself as Willa Grant, a retired teacher visiting from Atlanta.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but is something wrong with the retreat?”
“I’m afraid there is,” Nadia replied.
Willa looked at me.
“Are you Mrs.
Weller?”
“I am.”
She seemed genuinely surprised.
“Mallory told us you were living in a care facility and that your son was handling the property.”
I felt a cold pressure settle behind my ribs.
“I’m not living in a care facility.”
“She said you didn’t travel anymore.”
I glanced toward my car.
“Apparently, I still do.”
Willa’s face flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry.
I had no idea.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I told her.
Mallory stepped between us.
“Willa, please go inside.
This is a private family matter.”
But Willa didn’t move.
“I’ve paid for this weekend,” she said.
“I think that gives me a reason to ask questions.”
A few other guests approached.
Nadia explained that I owned the property and disputed having authorized its commercial use.
She asked the guests to preserve their booking confirmations and receipts, and said we would help them understand the situation so they could make arrangements safely.
Mallory’s voice rose.
“You can’t just cancel an entire weekend.
I have contracts.”
“Then show us the genuine authorization from the property owner,” Nadia said.
Mallory folded her arms.
“Caleb handled that.”
“Caleb isn’t the owner,” I replied.
For the first time that afternoon, she had no immediate answer.
A car turned into the driveway.
Caleb stepped out carrying his laptop bag, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He was forty-six, with Henry’s dark eyes and the same habit of rubbing his forehead when he was worried.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Mallory hurried toward him.
“Your mother brought an attorney and she’s trying to shut everything down.”
Caleb looked at me.
“Mom, can
