Mine arrived quietly.
The first sign was breakfast.
I woke at nine.
Made one piece of toast.
Sat by Ruth’s window.
And nobody asked me where their socks were.
Nobody asked what was for dinner.
Nobody handed me a bill.
For the first week, I kept feeling guilty whenever I rested.
At three in the afternoon, I would suddenly think:
I should be doing laundry.
Then I would remember.
Not mine.
Not my problem.
Ruth made me call a legal-aid office specializing in elder financial exploitation.
I met with an attorney.
We went through everything.
Bank records.
Transfers.
Text messages.
The promise of housing.
The absence of a written ownership agreement.
He told me I might have arguments worth pursuing, particularly if evidence showed intentional deception.
But litigation could be costly, slow, and emotionally draining.
