“She won’t,” I said. “I know women like her. When they think they’ve won, they can’t resist the temptation to rub it in your face. They will want me to know that they defeated me. And then they’ll talk.”
Ethan came out of the room at that moment, disheveled and with swollen eyes. Seeing us, he stopped.
“What’s going on?”
I explained the plan to him. I watched his face go from fear to concern, and finally to determination.
“What do I do?” he asked.
“You stay at Linda’s house that day. I don’t want you here when they come. It’s too dangerous.”
“But Grandma—”
“It’s not negotiable, Ethan. I need to know you are safe so I can concentrate on this.”
He didn’t argue further. He knew that when I used that tone, there was no turning back.
We spent the rest of the day preparing everything. Linda got four professional spy cameras. We installed them in strategic locations: one in the living room bookshelf, another in the dining room wall clock, a third on the kitchen shelf, and the last one in my floor lamp. From the room, Linda could see and record everything on her laptop.
I also prepared my house to look vulnerable. I left hospital bills on the dining table—fake ones prepared by Linda. I put medicine bottles in the kitchen. I wanted Chelsea to think I was sick, weak, desperate.
The next morning, I picked up my phone. My hands were shaking slightly as I dialed Rob’s number. He answered on the fourth ring.
“What do you want now, Mom?”
“I need to speak with Chelsea. It’s important.”
Silence. Then the sound of footsteps. Rob passed the phone to his wife.
“Elellanena,” Chelsea’s voice sounded cautious, almost amused. “What a surprise.”
“We need to talk about the house, about Ethan, about everything,” I said.
“We have nothing to talk about,” she replied.
“Please,” I said, letting my voice sound tired, defeated. “I’m tired of fighting. I just want my grandson to be safe and my son to be happy. If that means giving in, then that’s what I’ll do.”
There was a long silence. I could imagine Chelsea smiling on the other end.
“Giving in in what sense exactly?” she asked.
“The house,” I said. “I know Rob will eventually inherit it, but I’ve been sick lately. My heart isn’t well. The doctors say it could be a matter of months, maybe a year. I don’t want to die knowing I left a legal problem for my son.”
“How thoughtful of you,” she said, the sarcasm in her voice evident. “What are you suggesting?”
“I am willing to sign documents transferring the property to Rob’s name now. But with one condition: that you leave Ethan alone. That you drop the charges. That you allow him to live with me for the rest of my life.”
Another silence. I could hear voices in the background. Chelsea was consulting with someone—probably Gerald.
“When do you want to do this?” she asked.
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