I Spent My Life Savings On A Retirement Cottage. I Arrived To Find My Son Already Living There, And He’s Demanding The Master Bedroom. Am I Wrong For Evicting My Own Child?
Family or Intruders?
And then he told me. He told me that Stephanie had lost her job 3 months ago. That they’d fallen behind on their mortgage. That the bank was about to foreclose on their house in Atlanta.
“We didn’t know what to do,” he said. “And then you told us about this place and we thought, well, it just made sense.”
“What made sense?” I asked, even though I was starting to understand.
“Mom, you’re 67 years old. You can’t live alone in a beach house. What if something happens to you? What if you fall? What if you get sick?”
He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, the way you’d touch a child who needed to be calmed down.
“We figured we could all live here together. We could take care of you, and you could help us out until we get back on our feet.”
I looked at Stephanie, who hadn’t moved from the table. She didn’t even look up from her phone.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “This is my house. I just bought this house.”
“And it’s a perfect house for a family,” Daniel said. “Two bedrooms, a nice backyard for the kids. You always said you wanted to spend more time with your grandchildren. Now you can.”,
“But where would I sleep?”
Daniel smiled like I’d asked a silly question.
“We thought you could take the back bedroom. It’s smaller, but it’s got a nice window. And we’ll set up the master bedroom for me and Steph and the baby when it comes.”
I felt the room tilt.
“What baby?”
Stephanie finally looked up. She put her hand on her stomach and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m pregnant, Margaret. 14 weeks. That’s part of why we need the space.”
I stood there in my own kitchen, in the house I’d dreamed about for 40 years, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. They’d already figured out the sleeping arrangements. They’d already decided which room would be theirs. They’d already moved in.
“You should have asked me,” I said quietly.
Daniel’s expression changed. That annoyed look came back, sharper this time.
“Asked you? Mom, we’re family. Family doesn’t ask. Family just helps each other.”
“But this is my house.”
“Technically, yes. But what were you going to do here all alone? Sit around and wait to die?”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“This works out for everyone. We get a place to live, and you get people to take care of you. It’s a win-win.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t need taking care of, that I was perfectly capable of living on my own. That this wasn’t what I’d planned. That this wasn’t what I’d saved for. But my grandchildren were watching, and I didn’t want to make a scene.
“Let me think about it,” I said.
“What’s there to think about?” Daniel asked. “We’re already here.”
Losing Control
That night I slept in the back bedroom—the smaller one, the one with the nice window. I lay there in the dark listening to my son and his wife talking in the next room, listening to my grandchildren playing video games in the living room, listening to the sounds of my dream turning into something I didn’t recognize.
The next morning, I woke up at 6:00, the way I always do—old habits from 40 years of school bells.,
I walked into the kitchen to make coffee, and Stephanie was already there.
“Oh,” she said, not looking up from her phone. “I already made coffee, but I only made enough for me and Daniel.”
I stood there for a moment waiting for her to offer to make more. She didn’t.
“I can make another pot,” I said.
“Actually, we’re trying to save money. Coffee is expensive. Maybe you could just have tea.”
I made myself tea.
Over the next few days, I started to understand how things were going to work. Daniel and Stephanie had taken over the master bedroom, which had the only bathroom with a shower. I had to ask permission to use it.
They ate dinner together as a family in the kitchen while I was expected to eat in my room because there wasn’t enough space at the folding table.
“It’s just easier this way,” Stephanie explained. “The kids need structure.”
I offered to pay for groceries. Daniel said that wasn’t necessary since we were all family. Then I noticed that the groceries I’d bought were disappearing without anyone asking if I wanted any.,
I came home from the beach one afternoon to find that my favorite yogurt was gone. When I mentioned it, Stephanie laughed.
“Tyler loves that kind. You don’t mind sharing with your grandson, do you?”
I started buying groceries and keeping them in a mini fridge in my room.
The Violation
A week after they moved in, I found a letter on the kitchen table. It was addressed to Daniel at my address—my beach house address.
“Did you change your mailing address to my house?” I asked.
Daniel looked at me like I’d accused him of something.
“It’s not like we have anywhere else to get our mail, Mom. But this is my house, my address, and we’re living here. What’s the big deal?”
The big deal came 3 days later when I found another letter. This one was from the property tax office. It had been opened, read, and left on the table.
“Why are you opening my mail?” I asked.
Stephanie answered before Daniel could.
“We need to know what’s going on with the house, Margaret. The property taxes are due next month, and we need to figure out how we’re going to pay them.”,
“I’ll pay them. It’s my house.”
“With what money?” Stephanie asked. “You spent everything you had buying this place, and you’re only getting what? 1,800 a month from social security? That barely covers utilities.”
I felt my face get hot.
“I have a retirement account, which you can’t touch without penalty until you’re 70.”
We looked it up. They’d looked it up. They’d been researching my finances, planning how to manage my money.
“This isn’t any of your business,” I said.
Daniel stood up from the table. He was taller than his father had been, broader. When did my son get so big?
“Mom, we’re trying to help you. You clearly can’t afford to live here on your own. We’re doing you a favor by moving in and sharing expenses. You should be grateful.”
I should be grateful.
