The Iron Lady’s Last Stand

Friday morning, my phone rang with that particular tone men use when rehearsing kindness that’s really a knife. “Hi, Mom,” my son Ezra said. “About tonight… I’m sorry, but my wife wants dinner to be just her family.”

Just her family. As if forty-two birthdays, midnight math homework, and shoe-tying lessons were accounting errors I could amend on Form 1040-X. As if I could be erased with a single phone call, deleted from his life like an unwanted line item.

I stood there in my kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, and felt something ancient and dormant wake inside me. They had no idea what they’d just set in motion. By the time that evening ended, everyone would understand that Abigail Tmaine—the Iron Lady of the IRS—doesn’t break. She pivots. And when she does, the ground shifts beneath everyone’s feet.

But to understand what happened next, you need to know how a seventy-eight-year-old widow became the architect of her own revolution.

The Iron Lady

My name is Abigail Tmaine, and I spent forty-two years as an IRS inspector in Carson City, Nevada. The tax code does not tolerate mistakes or inaccuracies, and neither do I. These principles are ingrained in my blood.

When I look in the mirror today, I see gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, deep wrinkles around eyes and lips that almost never smile, arms with protruding veins but still strong enough to dig my vegetable garden alone. Seventy-eight years old, and I still manage on my own.

“Abigail Tmaine, the Iron Lady of the IRS”—that’s what my coworkers called me. I can’t say I took offense. My reputation as a relentless inspector protected me from the world. When you’re a woman in the world of numbers and tax returns, it’s better to be iron than soft. Softness is mistaken for weakness, and weakness isn’t respected.

Wallace was the only one who saw the real me behind that iron mask. He worked for a construction company designing bridges and roads. We met when his firm was undergoing a tax audit. He didn’t try to charm or bribe me like so many did. Instead, he argued with me about tax deductions with such passion that I couldn’t help but marvel.

Six months later, we were married, to the surprise of everyone who knew us.

We lived together twenty-eight years until lung cancer took him ten years ago. “Smoked a pipe too much,” the doctor said. But I know it wasn’t just that. He was the kind of man who burns brightly but doesn’t last long.

“Life isn’t about the number of years, Abby,” he liked to say. “It’s about what you accomplish in the time allotted.”

Wallace accomplished many things—built several bridges that still stand today, raised a son, and left behind memories that warm me on lonely evenings.

The Son Who Slipped Away

Ezra is our only son. We gave birth to him late when I was already thirty-six.

“Better late than never,” Wallace joked, though I know he dreamed of a big family.

I raised Ezra the way I thought was right—with discipline and high expectations. Some called me strict, but I just wanted my son to be ready for the real world. The world doesn’t offer indulgences, so why accustom a child to something he’ll never get?

Wallace was gentler. “How about we let the boy breathe? He’s just a kid, Abby.”

But when it came to parenting, I was adamant.

Ezra grew up sensitive and gentle, more like his father than me. He chose a career as a municipal water engineer—technical, but not overly ambitious. I’d hoped he would go into law or finance where my connections could help him.

“Water is life, Mom,” he explained.

“And taxes are death,” I joked.

But Ezra didn’t understand my irony. He never did.

Eight years ago, he brought Ivet Bington into our house—a frail girl with cold eyes and a perpetual half-smile, as if she knew something others didn’t. She worked as a receptionist in a dental clinic, a position that seemed inadequate for a woman with ambition read in her every move.

“She’s amazing, Mom,” Ezra said, looking at her with loving eyes.

I saw the calculation in her, but I kept silent. Is it right for a mother to criticize her son’s choices? That would be a sure way to alienate him.

The wedding was modest at Carson City City Hall, followed by dinner at a local restaurant. I paid most of the expenses, though Ivet’s parents—Lewis and Doris Bington—weren’t tight on funds. Lewis worked as an insurance agent, Doris as a school teacher. Ordinary middle-class people, unremarkable at first glance.

The Comparisons Begin

Soon after the wedding, I noticed Ezra began to change—or rather, his attitude toward me changed. At first, it was small things. He called less often, canceled visits at the last minute, was distant at family gatherings.

Then came the comparisons.

“You know, Mom, Ivet’s parents never made her study accounting when she wanted to be a photographer,” he said once when I suggested he consider a promotion.

“I never forced you to become an accountant,” I objected.

“But you always wanted me to be someone else, not who I am,” he replied with resentment he’d apparently carried for years.

Another time: “Ivet’s daddy always says that a modern parent should first and foremost be a friend to their child.”

“I can’t be your friend, Ezra. I’m your mother. Those are different roles.”

“Exactly. You’ve always been only a mother, never a friend.”

These comparisons to Ivet’s parents became regular occurrences.

“Doris taught Ivet how to make this pie. She never hides her recipes, unlike some people,” he remarked at one family dinner when I refused to reveal the secret of my apple pie.

Every comparison was a needle stabbing into my heart. I never showed how much it hurt. My pride wouldn’t let me.

And then Hope was born—my only granddaughter, the highlight of my life since Wallace’s death. She’s twenty-one now, studying environmental science in college. A serious, smart girl with Wallace’s eyes and my stubborn chin.

Hope is the only one I have a real connection with in this family. We’ve never been close in the usual sense—no secrets whispered, no long intimate conversations. But there’s a tacit understanding between us. She sees me for who I am without judgment or idealization.

The last year has been particularly difficult. Ivet became even more active in distancing my son from me. Calls became infrequent. Visits were formalities on holidays. Hope told me that her mother constantly made excuses not to visit me.

“She thinks you’re a difficult person, Grandma,” Hope said honestly.

“I am a difficult person,” I replied with a bitter smile.

The Grand Gesture

The final blow came three weeks ago when Ezra called to announce his forty-second birthday celebration.

“We’re going to celebrate modestly, just family,” he said.

“I can make your favorite chocolate cake,” I offered.

“Oh, don’t worry. Ivet’s mom already promised to bake it. She makes an amazing cake—moist with real cream. You know she never uses margarine in baking. Says it’s disrespectful to guests.”

Another comparison. Another needle. I do use margarine sometimes—a habit of saving money developed over years of living on a tight budget.

After that conversation, I sat in the kitchen for a long time, looking out the window at my little garden. Wallace always said I was too proud, that I needed to learn how to show my feelings.

And that’s when it hit me. I would show him that I, too, can be generous. I’d pay for dinner at the best restaurant in town for his birthday—not that diner where they usually celebrate, but a real restaurant. The Silver Moose, where the average bill per person is over $100.

I pulled my stash from the closet—money I’d been saving for years for a rainy day. Ten thousand dollars in cash in an old cookie tin. I never fully trusted banks.

“What do you say to that, Doris Bington?” I muttered, thumbing through the bills.

For the first time in a long time, I felt a surge of energy. I would show my son what true generosity means. I’d prove I could be as good as—no, better—than those Bingtons with their real-butter pies and modern parenting advice.

That evening, I called Ezra.

“I have a birthday surprise for you. I made reservations at the Silver Moose for the whole family for eight o’clock next Friday night.”

The silence lasted several seconds.

“Wow, Mom, that’s… that’s very generous, but are you sure? This restaurant is pretty expensive.”

“I’m not poor, Ezra. I can afford to treat my only son and his family to a nice restaurant once a year.”

“Of course. It’s just unexpected. Thanks. I’ll let Ivet and Hope know.”

When we finished talking, I felt slight unease. His reaction wasn’t as enthusiastic as I’d expected. But perhaps he was just stunned.

I walked over to Wallace’s picture on the mantle. “See, I know how to change even at seventy-eight.”

The picture was silent, but I thought Wallace was smiling approvingly from behind the glass.

The Silver Moose

The Silver Moose was located in the heart of Carson City in a historic building that once served as the city’s first bank. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers, marble columns—everything breathed luxury and tradition.

I’d always passed by this restaurant, even when I had money. I’d always thought it was an unjustifiable luxury to spend so much on food. But today, I pushed the heavy door open with determination.

A young man in an impeccable suit met me at the entrance.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“I’d like to talk to the manager about reserving a table for next Friday.”

The manager appeared—a tall man with graying temples and impeccable posture.

“I’d like to make a reservation for a table for four next Friday at eight o’clock. It’s my son’s birthday.”

“I’m afraid we already have all tables booked for next Friday. Perhaps two weeks from now?”

“I need next Friday exactly. It’s an important date for my family.”

“I understand, but—”

“I’m willing to pay more than usual. Double the price if necessary.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. He looked at me with renewed interest, then stepped back to the counter. A short time later, he returned with the reservation book.

“Surprisingly, we actually have a table free for eight o’clock next Friday next to the window overlooking the capital. One of the best in the room.”

I held back a smile. Money really does solve a lot of problems.

We discussed details, and I put down five hundred dollars in cash as a deposit. I noticed the manager was slightly surprised when I pulled money from my classic leather wallet, but he professionally concealed his reaction.

“We’ll do our best to make the evening perfect, Mrs. Tmaine,” he assured me.

Walking out of the restaurant, I felt different—more confident, more important. A feeling long forgotten.

Over the next week, I prepared for dinner. I pulled my best dress from the closet—a dark blue long-sleeved, modestly cut dress. I cleaned and ironed it. I found Wallace’s old brooch, the silver rose he’d given me for our twentieth wedding anniversary.

That evening, the phone rang. Hope’s name appeared on the screen.

“Grandma, it’s me.” Her voice sounded strained.

“Hello, sweetheart. How are you doing at college?”

“I’m fine. Listen, Dad said you’re having dinner at the Silver Moose for his birthday.”

“Yes, I made reservations for Friday at eight.”

“That’s… that’s very generous of you.”

“Nothing is too much for my only son.”

A pause followed, during which I could hear Hope breathing, as if gathering her thoughts.

“Grandma, I don’t know how to say this. I think something is going on. Mom and Dad have been whispering a lot the last few days. When I come into the room, they stop talking right away.”

“Maybe they’re preparing a surprise for you.”

“I don’t think so. I overheard part of a conversation by accident. They mentioned moving.”

“Moving?”

“They want to buy a new house—not just a new house. Mom said something about another state and about how now they’ll have a chance to start over without—” she stammered, “—without old attachments.”

I felt a chill go down my chest. Old attachments. Was that what they’d called me?

“Are you sure you heard that right?”

“Yes, Grandma. And also, Mom said they’re going to announce it after dinner on Dad’s birthday. She said it would be the perfect time.”

I sat up, clutching my phone tightly. So they were planning to use the dinner I’d paid for to announce their departure—to tell me they were leaving and taking my only granddaughter.

“What about you, Hope? Are you leaving too?”

“I don’t know, Grandma. I have another year and a half of school left. If they move, I’ll have to decide whether to stay here alone or transfer.”

“I understand.”

“Grandma, I shouldn’t have told you. They don’t know I heard. Please don’t give me away.”

“Of course, dear. It will stay between us.”

After we finished talking, I sat in silence for a long time, looking at Wallace’s picture. What would he have done?

I remembered how Ezra had joyfully introduced us to Ivet, hoping for a warm relationship. How gradually his eyes had begun to look at me differently—with criticism, with comparisons I’d always lost.

All these years, I kept quiet, swallowed my resentment, hoped things would get better. But time only made things worse. And now they were planning to cut me out of their lives for good.

I decided to wait. Let things take their course. I’d paid for the dinner. I’d be there. And when they announced their plans, I’d be ready.

Friday Morning

Friday morning began as usual. I got up early, drank my coffee, and did chores around the house. I’d been feeling strange tension these past few days, like something was about to happen.

The phone rang around ten. Seeing Ezra’s name on the screen, I smiled involuntarily. Maybe he wanted to confirm details of the evening or thank me for organizing dinner.

“Good morning, Ezra.”

“Hi, Mom.” I immediately heard the awkwardness in his voice.

“Is something wrong?”

He was quiet for a few seconds, then sighed.

“Mom, there’s something I have to say about dinner tonight.”

I remained silent, feeling my heart start to beat faster.

“You see, I’m sorry, but my wife prefers to have just her family at dinner.”

I felt the room around me seem to sway.

“Only her family? Who am I then? I don’t understand, Ezra. I’m your mother. Aren’t I family?”

“Of course you’re family, Mom. But Ivet would like us to celebrate tonight with just her parents. They have some news. And, well, they want a special evening.”

“A special evening?” I repeated. “At the restaurant I booked and paid for.”

“Yeah, about that. We could give you a refund or have another dinner later just for you.”

“Just for me?” Bitterness rose up inside.

“No, not at all, Mom. It’s just… well, you know, Ivet’s got it all planned out a certain way and—”

“And I don’t fit into her plans.”

“See, it’s not like that.”

“How is it, Ezra? Explain it to me.”

He sighed again, and I heard irritation in his voice—the familiar irritation that came every time I disagreed with something about Ivet.

“You see, Mom, Ivet’s parents know when to be there for us and when to give us space. They never impose.”

There it was. Another comparison, another needle.

“So I’m imposing?”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that sometimes you can be too pushy, too present.”

Too present. Interesting wording for a mother who sees her son once a month if she’s lucky.

“I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t really understand anything. “I’ll cancel the reservation.”

“No, don’t,” Ezra said quickly. “We’ll use it—just without you.”

Now that was when the real resentment hit me. They weren’t just refusing my presence. They wanted to use my gift without me.

“Okay,” I said, marveling at how calm my voice sounded. “I hope you have a good time.”

“Mom, no offense, please. We’ll be sure to have a separate evening for you. Maybe next week.”

“Of course, Ezra. Next week.”

We said our goodbyes and I hung up. For a few minutes, I just sat there staring into space.

“My wife prefers to have only her family for dinner.” Just her family. Like I’m not family, like I’m nobody.

Memories came flooding back—all the times they had subtly but insistently pushed me aside. The final insult—to exclude me from a holiday I had organized and paid for myself—was too much.

I called the restaurant and canceled the reservation. The manager was surprised.

“But, Mrs. Tmaine, everything is already set. The pastry chef has already started work on the cake.”

“I’m sorry, but circumstances have changed.”

“Of course. We’ll refund your advance, but according to our policy, we retain thirty percent if you cancel in less than twenty-four hours.”

“I understand.”

“Do you want us to transfer the money to your card or—”

“No,” I suddenly decided. “Donate it to the local homeless shelter.”

After that conversation, I felt strange relief, like I’d finally done something for myself instead of for others.

I decided to walk around town to clear my head. My feet led me to the home of Martha Higgins, my neighbor for over thirty years. Martha is the only person I could call a friend.

Martha cheered when she saw me. “Abigail, what a pleasant surprise. Come in. I was just baking a blueberry pie.”

We sat in her neat kitchen drinking tea. I wasn’t going to talk about what had happened. Pride wouldn’t let me. But Martha was always observant.

“Is something wrong, Abby? You look pale.”

And then I couldn’t take it anymore. The words came pouring out—about the restaurant, about Ezra’s call, about what he’d said.

Martha shook her head. “That one always struck me as arrogant.”

“You know,” Martha continued, “my Jenny works for the same plumbing company as Ezra. She says everyone at the company is talking about how Ezra applied for a transfer to the Portland branch. In Portland, Oregon.”

I felt the ground go from under my feet.

“In about two months. He’s being transferred there with a promotion. Jenny said everyone was surprised because Ezra never aspired to leadership positions, but his wife insisted. Said Portland had better schools for Hope and that her parents were thinking of moving there too.”

“Ivet’s parents are moving too?”

“Looks like it. Jenny heard Ezra tell someone that Ivet’s parents always know the best thing to do and that they’ll help with the down payment on a new house.”

Now everything fell into place. Hope talking about moving. Ezra and Ivet whispering. A dinner I wasn’t supposed to attend. They were planning to announce the move and didn’t want me there so I wouldn’t ruin their celebration.

“They’re going to leave and they didn’t tell me,” I said out loud.

Martha took my hand. “Abby, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought you should know.”

“Thank you, Martha. You did the right thing.”

I walked home at a brisk pace. Thoughts swirled in my head, forming into a plan of action.

The Decision

At home, the first thing I did was pull out my will. After Wallace died, I changed it, leaving everything to Ezra: the house, the savings, even the collection of porcelain figurines I’d started collecting when I was young.

Now I looked at the document with different eyes. Why should I leave everything to a man who cuts me out of his life, who allows his wife to treat me like an outsider?

I picked up my phone and dialed Harold Finch, the attorney who’d handled my cases for the past twenty years.

“Harold, this is Abigail Tmaine. I need to meet with you urgently today, if possible.”

“It’s Friday, Abigail, and it’s almost four. I was going to leave early.”

“This is very important, Harold. This is about a complete change in my will.”

He was silent for a second. “All right. Come by in half an hour.”

Exactly thirty minutes later, I was sitting in Harold’s office explaining my intentions.

“Are you sure, Abigail? This is a radical change.”

“Absolutely sure. I want my house to go into the ownership of the Carson City Single Senior Citizens Foundation upon my death. All of my savings, except for ten thousand dollars for my granddaughter Hope, should also go to the foundation.”

“And your son?”

“Nothing to him.”

Harold shook his head. “I must warn you that such a will can be contested. The complete disinheritance of a direct descendant—”

“I’m not disinheriting him completely. Let him have my porcelain collection. It’s worth quite a lot.”

“Still, the court may find it insufficient.”

“Then make a deed of gift of the house. Right now. I give the house to the foundation but retain the right of occupancy until my death.”

Harold raised his eyebrows. “That’s a big step, Abigail. You won’t be able to undo it later.”

“I know. That’s exactly what I want.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Good. I’ll get the paperwork ready.”

The next two hours passed in paperwork. Harold drafted documents, made phone calls, consulted with colleagues. His niece Rachel arrived—a notary who was surprised by my decision but didn’t ask too many questions.

By seven, everything was ready. I signed a gift of the house in favor of the foundation with the right to live in it for life. I signed a new will giving most of my savings to the foundation, ten thousand to Hope, and the china collection to Ezra.

“The documents will take effect immediately,” Harold said. “Are you sure you don’t want to think it over again?”

“No, Harold. I’ve made up my mind.”

On the way home, I felt strangely light, as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was no longer bound by obligations to a son who didn’t appreciate those obligations.

I was free.

The Reckoning

I sat in silence, waiting for my son’s family to return from dinner. They’d promised to stop by after the restaurant—probably to soften the blow of their decision to move.

They didn’t know I already knew everything. Didn’t know I had news for them too.

Time dragged agonizingly slow. The antique clock showed the beginning of eleven. Outside the window, dusk was thickening. I didn’t turn on the light. I like sitting in semidarkness alone with my thoughts.

Was I a good mother? This question had haunted me for years. I loved my son, always wanting the best for him. But love can be shown in many different ways, and perhaps my way didn’t match what Ezra needed.

The sound of a car pulling up pulled me from my musings. I tensed, listening to voices outside—laughter, excited exclamations. They were clearly in a good mood. The restaurant I’d paid for had lived up to their expectations.

The doorbell rang three times. Ezra had always rung it that way since he was a kid.

I got up, turned on the light, and went to open it.

All three were there—Ezra in the suit I’d seen last Christmas, Ivet in an elegant blue dress, and Hope shuffling awkwardly in a simple black dress. Everyone’s faces were flushed.

“Mom,” Ezra smiled broadly. “We decided to stop by after dinner.”

“That’s very nice of you,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Come on in.”

They entered the house—a house that was no longer mine, though they didn’t know it yet.

“How was dinner?” I asked as we settled in the living room.

“Delicious,” Ivet exclaimed. “The Silver Moose really lives up to its reputation.”

“Too bad you weren’t with us, Mom,” Ezra cleared his throat.

“Really? I thought my presence was unwelcome.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Abigail, we just wanted to spend this evening in a small circle,” Ivet said. “We had a special reason.”

“Yes, Mother,” Ezra picked up. “We wanted to break the news to Ivet’s parents in private and then tell you.”

“What news?” I asked, even though I knew perfectly well.

Ezra and Ivet looked at each other, their faces glowing.

“We’re being transferred to Portland,” Ezra announced. “I’ve gotten a promotion. I’ll be in charge of a new water treatment project. This is a huge opportunity for me—for all of us.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “When are you leaving?”

“In two months,” Ivet replied. “We have to sell the house, find a new one in Portland, transfer Hope to college there.”

“So much to do,” Ezra chimed in. “But Ivet’s parents will help us. They’re thinking of moving to Portland too.”

I listened, and every word was like a blow. They’d planned everything, decided everything, and never once thought about the fact that I’d be alone here.

“And you decided to tell me this after you celebrated with Ivet’s parents?”

Ezra looked embarrassed. “Mom, we wanted to tell you right away, but… well, you would have been upset. We thought it would be better to celebrate everything first and then talk to you calmly—”

“So I wouldn’t ruin the celebration with my upset.”

“Abigail,” Ivet interjected. “We realize this isn’t going to be easy for you, but you have to realize this is a huge opportunity for Ezra.”

“His career has never been more important to me than his happiness,” I interrupted. “And I thought his happiness included me.”

“Of course it does, Mom,” Ezra exclaimed. “We’ll come for the holidays. You can visit us.”

“How do your parents visit you, Ivet? Once a month? Once a week?”

Ivet tensed. “My parents respect our privacy. They come when we invite them.”

“And you’re going to invite me?”

“Mom, stop it,” Ezra started to get annoyed. “You’re dramatizing everything like you always do. We’re not leaving you. We’re just moving.”

“People leave their elderly parents all the time?”

“We don’t abandon you,” Ezra was almost yelling now. “Why do you always make everything so complicated? Why can’t you just be happy for me like Ivet’s parents? They supported us right away—even offered to help with the down payment.”

There it was—another comparison. Even now.

“You know, Ezra,” I said, surprised at the calmness in my voice, “I’ve made some decisions today too.”

I stood up and picked up a file folder from the coffee table.

“What’s this?” Ezra asked, suddenly wary.

“My new will and a deed of gift for the house.”

“A deed of gift? You’re selling the house?”

“No. I’m donating it to the Carson City Single Senior Citizens Foundation with the right of lifetime residency for me.”

Dead silence.

“You what?” Ezra finally squeezed out.

“You heard me. I’m donating the house to a charitable foundation. After I die, they will use it as a daycare center for the elderly. And I’m leaving most of my savings to the foundation as well.”

Ezra’s face turned white. Ivet froze, eyes widening.

“But—but why?”

“Because I’m tired of being the old attachment you want to get rid of. Because I’m tired of being constantly compared to Ivet’s perfect parents. Because you’re going to Portland without asking me, without thinking about me—and I don’t have to think about you anymore.”

“Mom, you can’t do that.” He grabbed the papers, frantically going through them. “This is our family home. I grew up here.”

“And now you’re going to start a new life in Portland without your old attachments.”

“Have you been eavesdropping on our conversations?” Ivet asked sharply.

“No. But in a small town, walls have ears.”

Ezra continued looking through the papers, hands trembling.

“You’re leaving me a… porcelain collection? That’s it? After all these years?”

“What did you expect, Ezra? That I’d sit here waiting for your rare visits while you talk about how wonderful Ivet’s parents are? No, thank you. I prefer to dispose of my property as I see fit.”

“This is crazy,” Ivet finally found her voice. “You can’t just take your own son’s inheritance and disinherit him.”

“I can, and I did.”

“We’ll challenge it in court. This is clearly the decision of an unstable person.”

“Go ahead. Just keep in mind that I’ve been with the IRS for forty-two years. I know every judge in this town, and every one knows me as a paragon of mental health and clarity.”

Ezra lowered his head, holding the documents like a lifeline.

“Mom, please… let’s talk about this. You can’t—”

“I’ve already done everything, Ezra. The papers are signed and certified. The deed of gift on the house went into effect today. The will has been changed. I’m leaving ten thousand dollars to Hope and the rest to the foundation.”

At mention of her name, everyone turned to Hope. She sat quietly in the corner, watching with wide eyes.

“Hope, say something,” Ivet demanded. “Your grandmother has lost her mind.”

Hope rose slowly, her face serious, her gaze hard.

“Actually, I think Grandma has every right to dispose of her property,” she said calmly.

“What?” Ivet stared at her daughter in disbelief.

“Mom, Dad—for years, you’ve been treating Grandma like a burden. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard you talk about her when she’s not around. How you planned this move without even thinking about what it would be like for her.”

“Hope, you don’t understand—” Ezra began.

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand.” For the first time, there was real anger in Hope’s voice. “You’re constantly comparing Grandma to Grandma and Grandpa Bington—and always not in her favor. You criticize her for everything. You sideline her at every opportunity. And now you’re surprised she won’t leave you everything she has?”

Ivet and Ezra looked at their daughter with mouths open.

“I’m tired of it,” Hope continued. “Tired of hearing you exalt Grandma and Grandpa Bington—who, by the way, aren’t perfect either. Do you know that Grandpa Lewis lost half his savings on dubious investments last summer? Or that Grandma Doris secretly smokes? They’re ordinary people with their own flaws—but for some reason, you’ve decided to make them perfect and Grandma Abigail a monster.”

Heavy silence hung in the room.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ivet finally uttered.

“Better for whom, Mother? For Grandma Abigail—or for yourself?”

Ezra shifted his gaze from his daughter to me. In his eyes I read confusion, shock, disbelief.

“Mom,” he said quietly. “Did you really do it? Really gave away the house and money?”

“No, Ezra, it’s not a bluff,” I replied. “I did what I think is right. Just like you do what you think is right for you.”

He lowered his head.

“I didn’t think you’d take our move so personally.”

“How else am I supposed to take the fact that my only family is moving hundreds of miles away without even discussing it with me?”

“We were going to discuss it today. After we decided everything. After celebrating with Ivet’s parents.”

“After excluding me from the family circle,” I finished for him.

Ezra couldn’t find anything to answer.

“What now?” he finally asked.

“Now you go to Portland, start a new life, and I’m staying here in my house, which is now owned by the foundation, and starting a new life too.”

“Without us?”

“You’re the one who decided to be without me, Ezra. I’m just accepting your decision.”

One Year Later

The next two weeks passed in heavy silence. After that night, Ezra and Ivet left my house, slamming the door. Hope stayed with me, silently packing some things and asking permission to sleep in her old room.

Ezra called three times. The first time to tell me I was making a huge mistake. The second, three days later, asking if there was anything I could do to revoke the gift. I replied no. The third call was a week later, informing me he and Ivet were moving to Portland anyway.

“We’ll manage on our own,” he said. Then there was resentment in his voice—and something else. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, respect.

Ivet didn’t call at all. Hope told me her mother thought I was a vindictive old woman determined to ruin their lives.

A month later, I learned Ezra and Ivet’s house was for sale. The price was low. They were clearly in a hurry.

Hope decided to stay in Carson City. She’d applied to transfer to a local college to finish her degree here.