My son Daniel and his wife Janelle once cared. Sundays meant coffee, pie, and gardening. I felt loved and divided my will fairly — the house to Daniel and Janelle, savings for my grandson Luke. But once the paperwork was done, their visits faded. Janelle only called when she needed favors. The only one who still saw me as more than a burden was Luke, my sweet nine-year-old who called me “Grammy Evie.”

After a lonely Christmas, I called my lawyer to change my will — everything would go to Luke. But Daniel overheard. The next day, they arrived with smiles. “Surprise! You’ve won a wellness retreat!” Before I could argue, my suitcase was packed, and I was whisked away. Instead of a spa, I found myself in a care home for dementia patients. My heart sank.

Then came the twist of fate: the doctor was Frank, my old college love. Shocked to see me, he quickly realized I was of sound mind. I explained the truth — my children feared losing their inheritance. Frank agreed to help me expose them, on one condition: dinner, to make up for the date we never had. I laughed but agreed.

On “Open House Day,” Daniel and Janelle stormed in, furious after hearing I’d changed my will. They accused Frank of manipulating me. Calmly, he declared me perfectly healthy. Their silence revealed the truth: their concern was only about money.

I stood tall. Everything was left in trust for Luke, the only one who never forgot me. Frank only asked for dinner.

For once, I wasn’t trapped. I was free.