After 38 years at the same clinic, I finally retired at seventy—picked up a strawberry cream cake, excited to celebrate with my family. But when I got home, my key didn’t work. My bags were sitting on the porch with a sticky note from my daughter-in-law: “Your room at the senior facility is paid for. Thomas thinks this was your idea. If you want to see the kids again, follow my plan.” The silence inside the house confirmed it—she had thrown me out. I gave them everything. Paid the bills. Watched the kids. Gave them the house. And this was how they thanked me?

But I wasn’t about to disappear quietly. With the help of my old friend Bonnie—and her tech-savvy cat—we uncovered the truth: Delia had been having an affair with the gardener and manipulating my son the entire time. We exposed her, right there in the backyard, with a projector and undeniable footage. Thomas saw it all. And just like that, Delia was gone. My grandkids came home. The house was mine again. I may be retired—but I’m far from finished.