The first page was a thirty-day notice to vacate. My son had lived rent-free on my second floor for almost three years, supposedly saving for a house. I had never calculated what that generosity had cost me until the drive home from Oregon, my husband’s scarf resting on the passenger seat, when I finally did the math. The second page listed everything: electricity, internet, groceries, school expenses, temporary costs, and the twenty-four-thousand-dollar lodge. The third page was the deed, with only my name on it.

Preston read the notice twice before reaching for the explanation where he was somehow the injured party. He said I was punishing his children. I told him they had done nothing wrong and could visit whenever they wanted. The notice was for the two adults who had created a group chat called “Operation Ditch Grandma” and left me sleeping in the snow on Christmas morning. Bianca tried to argue about the money her parents had supposedly lost, so I pushed one final page across the island: the lodge cancellation record.