I went to my beach house to relax on my vacation, but the master room and kitchen were under construction. My son said: “I’m remodeling so my wife and her parents can live here.” I opened my property file and called my lawyer. The next morning, they knocked desperately on my door at 6 a.m…When I arrived at my beach house that Friday afternoon, Kloe was already on the deck, giving orders to three workers as if she owned the place. She didn’t greet me. She didn’t even turn her head when the car stopped in front of the entrance.

She just raised her hand, pointing toward the kitchen, and shouted something about the tile needing to arrive before Monday. I felt a chill run down my spine that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. I got out of the car slowly, watching.The front door was wide open. There were bags of cement stacked next to my pots of geraniums, the ones I planted 5 years ago with my own hands. The sound of a drill pierced the air from somewhere inside the house.My house. The house I bought after 40 years of working double shifts as a nurse at General Hospital. The house I paid for with my sweat after my husband died and left me with nothing but debts and broken promises.