The house where Matthew learned to ride a bicycle in the hallway, where Lily made her first drawing on my kitchen wall, where I kept my husband’s letters in a cookie tin.
“Nancy, call your nephew.”
“The one in the police department?”
“No. The lawyer.”
“What did you do, woman?”
I looked at Lily’s paper in my hand.
“I think I finally woke up.”
I didn’t go straight to the house.
Halfway there, I asked the taxi driver to drop me off in front of an old-fashioned diner in Brooklyn, one of those places where they still sell hot buttered toast and coffee at any hour.
I went in, ordered water, and called a person I hadn’t called in years: Sarah Jenkins, my husband’s lawyer before he died.
Sarah answered dryly, as always.
“Mrs. Barbosa.”
“My son is taking me to France against my will.”
There was no surprise in her voice.
Only attention.
“Where are you?”
“In a diner. Park Slope.”
“Do not go to your house alone.”
“There are already men taking out boxes.”
Sarah breathed heavily.
“Did you sign a power of attorney?”
I thought about the papers.
About Matthew sitting with me at the table, pushing sheets of paper.
“Mom, it is just for the bank.”
“Mom, it is to make the taxes easier.”
“Mom, don’t read everything, you will get tired.”
“I signed some things.”
“In front of a notary?”
“Yes.”
“Did you understand what you signed?”
I felt shame.
A hot, cruel shame.
I, who for years managed the household expenses, who took care of a sick Anthony, who paid for school, groceries, doctors, bills, now had to admit that my own son had made me sign documents I didn’t understand.
“No,” I said.
Sarah didn’t scold me.
That saved me.
“I am on my way there. Do not move. And turn off your location.”
I didn’t know how.
A young girl at the next table, who had overheard part of the call, walked over.
“Can I help?”
She was about twenty years old, with blue hair at the tips and a small piercing in her nose.
“My son is tracking me,” I said, feeling absurd.
She didn’t laugh.
She took my phone, opened settings, disabled location, sharing, apps.
“There you go, ma’am. And remove this.”
She showed me an app with an innocent name: “Family Care.”
I hadn’t installed it.
Matthew had.
The girl handed back my phone.
“Don’t answer calls. Only messages. That way there is proof.”
I thanked her with a broken voice.
She squeezed my hand.
“My grandmother went through something similar. Do not go back to him alone.”
Sarah arrived twenty minutes later, with a briefcase, dark sunglasses, and a battle face.
