My name is Sophia Reynolds, I’m sixty-eight, and last Christmas I walked into my own house with my foot in a cast and a voice recorder hidden in my cardigan. Everyone stared when I said my daughter-in-law had pushed me on purpose. My son laughed and told me I “deserved the lesson.”
After My Husband Di:ed
Three years earlier my husband Richard di:ed suddenly of a heart att:ack. We’d spent thirty-five years together building a life and a small bakery chain—four stores in New York, plus our house in Brooklyn and healthy savings. Altogether, our estate was worth around four million dollars.
Richard was gone, and with him went half my soul. For the first time in decades, the house felt too big, too quiet. My only son, Jeffrey, arrived at the wake with his wife Melanie, hugging me so tightly I thought it was grief. I know now it was calculation.
Before Richard died, they visited once a month. After the funeral, they started showing up every weekend. Jeffrey said I shouldn’t live alone in such a big place. He worried about my “mental health” and “safety.” Melanie agreed softly with everything he said, all smiles and sympathy.
Four months later, I let them move in. They took the guest room, then the garage, then slowly spread through the entire house as if it had always been theirs. At first, I was grateful for the noise, the company, the illusion of family. I had no idea I’d just invited predators into my home.
