I worked at that clinic for thirty-eight years. The faces changed, management came and went. Even the hospital name got a rebrand or two. But I stayed.

Not because I had to. Because if not me, then who?

At home, I had my crew — my son Thomas, his wife Delia, and my two grandbabies, Ben and Lora. We all lived under one roof. My roof.

But I never treated it like a favor.

“Long as I’m breathing, nobody in my family’s paying rent,” I’d always said.

I covered the bills — electricity, groceries, insurance. My daughter-in-law, Delia, didn’t work. Claimed the kids kept her too busy, though I watched them four or five hours a day myself.

She always seemed to find time to buy new shoes, though. Every other week, it seemed. Her closet was turning into a Macy’s. She’d shrug and say, “I only buy when it’s on sale,” and I’d just quietly transfer more money to the joint card. Easier than starting a fight.

Thomas, bless him, was a gentle soul like his late father. Whenever I brought up Delia’s spending, he’d drop his eyes.

“Mom, please… don’t start.”

And I’d let it go — for the kids. Lora would climb into my bed at night, whispering, “Nana, I wanna sleep with you!” And little Ben once told me, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a castle. And you’ll be the queen.”

When the clinic told me I had to retire, I didn’t cry. I was seventy. I knew it was coming. My team threw me a farewell — balloons, cupcakes, and a mug that said, Retired, Not Expired.

I stopped at Tilly’s for Ben’s favorite strawberry cream cake, ready to celebrate quietly with my family.

The sun was low when I reached my porch. But the door was locked. My key… didn’t fit. Confused, I turned — and froze. Two suitcases sat neatly by the door. Mine.

A yellow sticky note clung to one handle:

Thank you for everything. It’s time for you to rest. Your room at the senior facility is paid for a year. Cash for the cab is in the envelope. Thomas thinks this is YOUR IDEA. If you ever want to see the kids again — follow MY PLAN.
—Delia

The cake tilted in my hands. Frosting smeared under the lid.

She had actually done it.

I sat on the porch until my legs went numb. Then I remembered Bonnie — my neighbor and best friend since 1986, who once gave me jumper cables and told me my ex-husband looked like a baked potato in khakis.

Bonnie answered the door in rollers and a robe, cat on her hip. “Well, I’ll be damned. I thought you’d be halfway to Shady Pines by now.”

When I told her the truth, she put tea in front of me and said, “If you’re not sleeping on my couch tonight, I’ll throw you there myself. And Fern… we’re not fighting loud. We’re fighting smart.”

Over the next 24 hours, our “investigation” began. From Bonnie’s window, we spotted Gary — my gardener — arriving on a Thursday instead of his usual Saturday. Delia greeted him in leggings and a crop top, and minutes later, he strolled inside like he owned the place.

Bonnie grinned. “Little Miss Perfect’s got secrets.”

Using a birthday gift from Ben — a pet camera I’d never opened — we strapped it to Bonnie’s cat, Mr. Pickles, and let him wander in.

From Bonnie’s laptop, we saw and heard everything:

Delia’s voice: “Oh, Gary… Tom’s still in Oregon. And I finally got rid of Nana. Now we can meet more often.”

Followed by unmistakable moaning.

We saved the footage. Then planned the reveal.

Friday night, Thomas came home from his trip. I led him to Bonnie’s yard, where a white sheet hung between trees, a projector aimed at it.

On screen, in my kitchen, Delia purred to Gary: “Let’s make it quick. Tom’s not back till tomorrow.”

Thomas’s face drained. Then I handed him the sticky note she’d left on my suitcase.

He read it twice. His hands shook. “Go inside,” he told Delia flatly. “Pack your things.”

She went without a word.

Thomas sat heavily on the flowerbed, his head in his hands. “She isolated you. And I let her. That’s on me.”

I touched his arm. “We both got tricked by someone we trusted.”

Then Bonnie, ever the general, declared, “We’re getting the grandkids from chess club. They’re sleeping here tonight. I’ll bake a pie.”

As she walked off humming, I stood and looked back at my house. My house.

Because Nana may be retired… but she sure as hell wasn’t done.