When I retired at 70 after nearly four decades at the clinic, I brought home a cake to celebrate with my son Thomas, his wife Delia, and my grandkids—only to find my suitcases on the porch and the locks changed. A note from Delia claimed I’d “moved to a senior facility by choice” and warned me to keep quiet if I wanted to see the kids again. Heartbroken, I crossed the street to my best friend Bonnie’s house. She gave me tea, a place to stay, and a promise: we’d get to the bottom of this.
From Bonnie’s window, we spotted our gardener Gary visiting my house on a weekday when Thomas was away—something he’d never done before. Moments later, Delia opened the door dressed to impress, and Gary walked right in. Bonnie and I sent in her cat wearing a pet camera my grandson had once given me. Through the feed, we heard Delia bragging to Gary about kicking me out so they could meet more often. We saved the footage, knowing exactly how to use it.
The night Thomas returned, I invited him into the backyard, where Bonnie had set up a projector. On the screen, Delia’s betrayal played out in full view—her voice, her lover, and my kitchen as the backdrop. Thomas read the original sticky note Delia had left on my suitcase, realizing she’d lied to both of us. His voice was calm but final when he told her to pack her things. She went inside without a word.
