My son stated, «We can’t keep you here, you need to leave.» So I departed…

That evening I made chicken alfredo, Josh’s favorite. Neither of them came to the table. Megan said she already ate.

Josh mumbled something. About work and stayed upstairs. I sat alone and ate slowly, thinking about how I had raised him.

Soccer games, lost teeth, emergency room trips, SAT tutors. I tucked every birthday card he’d ever drawn me into a shoebox I still carried in my suitcase. And now, I was an obstacle.

A calculation. The next morning, I was washing strawberries when Megan walked in, arms folded, face carefully blank. Linda, she said, we think it’s time you looked for something more.

Permanent. Just your own space, you know? For your comfort. For ours.

Josh entered a moment later, sipping coffee like nothing was happening. We don’t have space for you anymore, Mom, he said. You need to go.

Just like that, I wiped my hands on a dish towel, turned to face them both, and smiled. Not wide, not fake. Just still.

Okay, I said. I’ll be out by tonight. Megan blinked.

Josh nodded like he’d just completed a work task. Thanks, Mom, he said, already turning away. I went to my room and packed everything I had.

My clothes, James’ photo, a paperback I never finished, and a red folder I kept buried at the bottom of my suitcase, the house deed. My name sat next to Josh’s, 49% co-owner. I didn’t say goodbye.

I ordered a cab and left without looking back. But I knew something they didn’t. That house was no longer just their dream.

It was also their ticking time bomb. And I had just lit the fuse. The cab ride to the extended stay motel was quiet.

I sat in the back seat holding that red folder like it was a newborn baby, hands clenched so tight, the corner left an imprint on my palm. I’d booked the room a week earlier, not because I expected to need it, but because something inside me had whispered, be ready. The motel was clean but sad.

Faded carpet, a lamp that flickered if you touched it wrong, the smell of fried onions buried in the wallpaper. I paid cash for three nights and declined housekeeping. I didn’t want anyone seeing what little I had.

That night, I laid on the stiff bed with the TV on mute and stared at the ceiling while holding the deed on my chest like a shield. I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t even surprised.

But I was done. The next morning, I used the motel printer to make five copies of the deed, one for me, one for a lawyer if it came to that, and three in case I needed to hand proof to anyone who doubted I still had power. I was halfway through my second cup of diner coffee when the call came.

Unknown number. I almost ignored it, but something in me said, pick up. Ms. Carter, the voice said.

My name’s Brad. I’m with Carolina Private Lending. You’re listed as a co-owner of a property at 124 Grayson Park Drive? My heart slowed.

Yes, I said cautiously. Is there a problem? Brad cleared his throat. There’s been a default.

Your son, Mr. Joshua Carter, took out a $95,000 business loan using the house as collateral. Payments haven’t been made in months. We’ve issued three warnings.

He’s in breach. Unless the loan is resolved, foreclosure proceedings begin Friday. I didn’t react…