e table, I whispered, “You have no idea what you’ve just done, boy.”
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to Daniel and Chloe laughing downstairs. They had already begun celebrating—drinking wine in my living room, in my house—as if I no longer existed.
Sleep never came.
Morning arrived too quickly. Daniel burst into my room, a suitcase in his hand.
“Here,” he said, dropping it onto the bed. “I packed your stuff.”
I stared at it, my hands curling into fists. “You packed my stuff?”
“Yeah,” he replied, as if doing me a favor. “Look, Grandma, let’s not make this harder than it needs to be, okay? Chloe and I have plans, and… well, this just isn’t your home anymore.”
I took a sharp breath, steadying myself. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
Daniel exhaled impatiently. “Just go, alright? There’s a bench at the bus stop. You can sit there while you figure things out.”
A bench.
After everything I had done for him.
I wanted to scream. To cry.
But instead, I stood up—slowly, steadily. I picked up the suitcase and walked to the front door. Daniel held it open, avoiding my gaze. Chloe stood in the kitchen, stirring her coffee as if none of this concerned her.
I stepped outside.
And Daniel closed the door behind me.
Just like that, I was homeless.
I sat on the porch for a while, pulling my coat tighter as the cold crept in. Part of me still hoped the door would open, that Daniel would come to his senses.
But an hour passed.
Nothing.
Finally, I stood and walked next door.
“Margaret?” I called when she answered. “Can I use your ph
