That night, as my grandson’s voice shook through the phone—“Grandma, I’m at the police station.

“Tomorrow. 3:00 p.m. At my house. Bring your lawyer if you want. I want everything to be legal and final.”

“Why the sudden change of heart, Elellanena?”

“Because I’m tired. Because I no longer have the strength to fight. And because at the end of the day, my son chose—and he didn’t choose me.”

Those last words hurt to say because they were true.

“Tomorrow at three, then,” Chelsea said. “And I hope you’re not playing games with me, old lady. Because if you are, I promise you’ll regret it.”

“I’m not playing games. I just want peace.”

She hung up.

I was left staring at the phone, my heart pounding furiously. Linda placed a hand on my shoulder.

“You did very well, Commander. You sounded convincing.”

“It’s because part of it is true,” I admitted. “I am tired. And Rob did choose her over me. But we are not going to let her win.”

“No,” Linda said. “We are going to make sure she loses everything.”

We spent the rest of the day going over every detail of the plan. Where I would sit. Where they would sit. What questions to ask to make them talk. How to subtly provoke them so they felt secure.

That night, before sleeping, I went into Ethan’s room. He was lying down, looking at the ceiling.

“Nervous, Grandma?” he asked.

“A little,” I said. “But more than nervous, I’m angry. And that anger is what’s going to give me strength tomorrow.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing is going to go wrong. Trust me.”

He sat up in bed and hugged me.

“I always trust you, Grandma. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“And you are the reason I keep fighting,” I replied.

The next day, Linda came early. We checked the cameras one last time. Everything was working perfectly.

At 1:00 p.m., we took Ethan to Linda’s house. Her husband, a quiet and reliable man, stayed with him.

“Do not leave the house for any reason,” I told Ethan. “And keep your phone on.”

“Be careful, Grandma.”

“I always am.”

Linda and I returned to my apartment. She set up in my room with her laptop, headphones, and a professional recorder. I stayed in the living room, waiting.

At 2:55, the doorbell rang. I took a deep breath. I stood up, smoothed my gray blouse and dark skirt. I had chosen clothes that made me look older, more fragile.

I opened the door.

There they were. Chelsea in a beige office dress and high heels. Beside her, a man in his fifties, impeccable suit, briefcase in hand. Gerald Hayes—no doubt. And behind them, with an uncomfortable expression, was Rob.

“Come in,” I said softly. “I was expecting you.”

Chelsea entered first, looking at my house with barely disguised contempt. Gerald followed her, evaluating everything with a lawyer’s eyes. Rob entered last, without looking me in the eyes.

“Sit down, please,” I said.

I gestured to the couch and dining chairs. Chelsea sat on the main armchair as if she owned the place. Gerald next to her. Rob on a separate chair, as if wanting to disappear. I sat across from them.

And in that moment, with the cameras recording every second, the final game began.