I called the title company the moment they opened. Then I drove to a lawyer in Narragansett and signed a revocation of the power of attorney before lunch. My lawyer said it was textbook elder financial abuse. By two o’clock, the title company had canceled the closing and flagged the sale as suspicious. My lawyer also sent a formal notice to everyone staying in my house: leave within twenty-four hours, or the police would remove them.

Gregory called me that night, crying. He admitted that he and Tamsin were buried in credit card debt, and that Tamsin’s mother had promised to give them part of the profit after she resold the house. Tamsin convinced him I was too old to care about a beach house and would never notice. He said he had felt sick about it for weeks. The family vacation was really a week of measuring rooms for the new owners.

They were gone by the next afternoon, leaving wet towels and broken flowerpots behind. My neighbors brought me soup and helped me clean. I changed the locks again and replanted the bougainvillea myself. I didn’t press charges against my son, but I rewrote my will and appointed my oldest friend as my power of attorney instead. Tamsin never apologized. Gregory did, slowly, over many months, and he paid for every broken pot.

Last summer, Gregory came to the house alone and asked if he could help me paint the shutters. I let him. We worked in silence for most of the afternoon, and then he told me he had left Tamsin and was seeing a counselor. He also asked about Ambrose, and I told him stories until dark. That evening, we sat on my terrace with coffee. My embroidered apron was back on its hook, right where it belonged.