My name is Geneva Walsh, but everyone’s called me Genie since I was seven years old and declared I could grant wishes if people were nice enough. Fifty-three years later, I was still granting wishes—just never my own.
I stood in the doorway of what had been the guest bedroom for the past six months, watching my daughter-in-law, Isabelle, arrange her makeup collection across the antique vanity that belonged to my grandmother. The morning light caught the crystal bottles and gold compacts, creating little rainbows on the wallpaper I’d hung myself twenty-five years ago.
“Morning, Genie,” Isabelle chirped without looking up from her reflection. She was applying some sort of cream that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. Everything about Isabelle was precise: her platinum blonde hair, her designer workout clothes, even her smile, which seemed measured for maximum impact.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I replied, stepping into the room that used to house my sewing machine. Those had been relocated to the basement months ago when my son, Marcus, announced that he and Isabelle needed “space” while they looked for their “perfect forever home.” That was eighteen months ago.
“I was thinking,” Isabelle continued, now applying mascara with the concentration of an artist, “we should probably talk about the living situation.”
My chest tightened, but I kept my voice steady. “Oh? What about it?”
She turned then, her green eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Well, Marcus and I have been discussing it, and we think it might be time for some changes. We’re not kids anymore, you know. We need our space to grow as a couple.”
I gripped the door frame a little tighter. “Of course. Have you found somewhere you’d like to move?”
Isabelle’s laugh was like windchimes in a hurricane—pretty, but sharp. “Oh, Genie, you’re so sweet. No, we were thinking more along the lines of… well, this is Marcus’s childhood home, right? His inheritance, technically. And you’ve had such a good run here. But maybe it’s time you found your own little place. Something more suitable for a woman your age.”
The words hit me like ice water. A woman your age. I was sixty-eight, not ninety-eight. I had maintained this four-bedroom colonial for thirty years.
“This is my home, Isabelle,” I said quietly.
“Well, technically,” she stood up, smoothing her leggings, “it’s in Marcus’s name now, isn’t it? Since the transfer after your husband died.”
My throat closed. She was right. After my husband, David’s, sudden heart attack five years ago, the grief had been so overwhelming that when Marcus suggested transferring the house to his name “for tax purposes,” I’d signed the papers without really reading them. He was my son. I trusted him.
“I just think,” Isabelle continued, now applying lip gloss, “it would be better for everyone if you found your own space. Something smaller, easier to manage. There are some lovely senior communities nearby.”
Senior communities. The phrase made my skin crawl. I wasn’t ready for organized craft time and early-bird dinners.
“Where is Marcus?” I asked.
“Shower,” she replied, capping her lip gloss with a decisive click. “But we’ve already talked about this, Genie. He agrees. It’s time.”
I walked downstairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors I’d had refinished just two years ago. This kitchen had been the heart of our family for three decades. The scratches on the butcher block island told stories. The growth marks on the door frame charted Marcus’s journey from toddler to man.
“Morning, Mom.” I turned to find Marcus in the doorway, hair still damp. At thirty-five, he’d inherited his father’s height and my stubborn jawline. But somewhere along the way, he’d also inherited an entitlement I didn’t recognize.
“Morning, honey.” I poured two cups of coffee, adding cream to his just the way he liked it. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, thanks.” He accepted the mug but didn’t meet my eyes. “Listen, Mom. Isabelle mentioned she talked to you about the living situation.”
I nodded.
“She’s right, you know,” he continued. “This place is getting too big for you to handle alone.”
“I handle it just fine,” I said quietly.
“Mom, come on. The gutters need cleaning, the deck needs to be power-washed… It’s too much for someone your age.”
Someone your age. The same phrase. “I maintain this house perfectly well,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice. “The gutters were cleaned last month.”
“It’s not about that. It’s about us having space. Isabelle wants to start a family soon, and we need room to grow.”
“This house has four bedrooms,” I pointed out.
“Mom,” his tone was the same one he’d used as a teenager when he thought I was being unreasonable. “We’re adults. We can’t live with my mother forever.”
“Then move out,” I said simply.
He stared at me like I’d suggested he fly to the moon. “Move out? Mom, this is my house now. My inheritance. Dad left it to me.”
“Dad left it to both of us,” I corrected. “I transferred it to your name for tax purposes. There’s a difference.”
“Look.” He set down his mug with more force than necessary. “We’ve been patient. We’ve lived here for a year and a half, saving money, contributing to expenses…”
Contributing to expenses. They’d paid for groceries exactly twice. “I think,” he said, “it would be best for everyone if you found your own place. Something more appropriate.”
There it was. My own son was threatening to evict me from the house where I’d raised him. “I understand,” I said quietly.
Relief flooded his features. “Good. We’ll help you look at places. It’ll be an adventure, right? A fresh start.”
“How long do I have?” I asked.
“Well, we were thinking maybe by the end of the month? Isabelle found this amazing interior designer who can help us redesign the space, and she’s available to start in February.”
End of the month. It was January 15th. They were giving me two weeks to uproot my entire life.
“Of course,” I said. “Two weeks should be plenty of time.”
He beamed, like I’d just agreed to give him a present instead of my entire life. He kissed my cheek. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart.”
I watched him leave the kitchen, probably to report back to Isabelle that the difficult conversation had gone better than expected. I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by thirty years of memories, and felt something cold settle in my chest. Not anger, not yet. Something quieter, more dangerous: clarity.
I spent the next three hours doing research. Property values in our neighborhood had skyrocketed. The house David and I had bought for $85,000 was now worth over $400,000. Monaco was expensive, but not impossibly so for someone with substantial assets. And I had more assets than Marcus realized.
The house wasn’t the only thing David had left me. There was his life insurance, the proceeds from the sale of his business, the investments we’d made over thirty years. The will had been very clear: everything went to me first, then to Marcus upon my death. The house transfer had been for tax purposes only. The rest was still mine. All of it.
By noon, I had a plan. By 1:00 p.m., I was on the phone with a real estate agent.
“Mrs. Walsh,” said Jennifer Morrison, “I’d be delighted to help you. When were you thinking of listing?”
“As soon as possible,” I said. “I need to move quickly.”
“The market is very hot right now. When can I come take a look?”
“This afternoon?”
There was a pause. “That’s quite fast. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s perfect,” I said. And for the first time in months, I meant it. “I’m ready for an adventure.”
Jennifer arrived at 3:00 p.m. sharp. She walked through the house, noting the crown molding and hardwood floors with professional appreciation. “This is remarkable,” she said. “You’ve maintained this beautifully.”
“May I ask what prompted the decision to sell? Are you downsizing?”
“Something like that,” I said. “I’m relocating internationally.”
Her eyebrows rose. “How exciting. Where to?”
“Monaco.”
If she was surprised, she hid it well. “Lovely.”
“What do you think the house might sell for?” I asked.
“Given the neighborhood and condition, I’d estimate somewhere between $420,000 and $450,000. Possibly more if we get multiple offers, which I expect we will.”
“How quickly could we close?”
“With a cash buyer, potentially within thirty days.”
Thirty days. Marcus had given me two weeks to disappear quietly into a senior living facility. “Let’s do it,” I said.
That night, I lay in the bed I’d shared with David for twenty-five years, staring at the ceiling and listening to Marcus and Isabelle’s voices drift up from below. They were making plans for the furniture they wanted to buy once I was gone. I wasn’t angry yet. That would come later. Right now, I felt something much more powerful: freedom.
The moving truck arrived at 7:00 a.m. on January 31st. I stood at my bedroom window, watching the crew prepare to load the few pieces of my life that would accompany me across the Atlantic. Marcus and Isabelle were still in bed. I met the movers at the door, my voice a whisper as I directed them to the items marked with bright yellow stickers.
After the truck pulled away, the house felt different, lighter. Upstairs, I could hear the shower running. Isabelle was beginning her morning routine, unaware that anything had changed.
I made coffee in my empty kitchen, standing at the counter. My phone buzzed with a text from Celeste in Monaco: Everything prepared for your arrival. Welcome to your new adventure.
At 68, I was about to embark on the biggest adventure of my life.
I heard footsteps on the stairs. Isabelle. I heard her pause, probably noticing the absence of the coffee table.
“Genie?” her voice carried a note of confusion. “Did you move some furniture?”
I took a sip of coffee. “Just some rearranging,” I called back. It wasn’t technically a lie. I had rearranged things—from this house to a cargo ship to a storage facility in Nice.
Marcus appeared a few minutes later, frowning. “Mom, where’s all your stuff?”
“Gone,” I said simply.
“Gone where?”
“To my new place.”
He blinked. “Your new place? But you haven’t moved yet. We agreed on the end of the month.”
“And today’s the 31st,” I said, standing up. “I’m leaving for my new place this afternoon.”
Isabelle materialized beside him, her face a mask of confusion and growing alarm. “Leaving? What do you mean, leaving? We’re supposed to tour Sunrise Manor on Monday.”
“No,” I corrected gently. “You assumed I would tour Sunrise Manor. I never agreed to that.”
Marcus’s face was cycling through emotions like a slot machine: confusion, realization, anger. “Mom, what’s going on? Where are you going?”
I walked to the kitchen counter where I’d left two envelopes. I handed them their respective letters and returned to my chair. “Everything you need to know is in there,” I said. “But the short version is this: you told me to find my own place, and I did. Monaco.”
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the grandfather clock ticking. Isabelle opened her envelope first, her manicured fingers tearing at the paper.
“$2.1 million,” Marcus read aloud, his voice barely a whisper.
“Plus the house sale,” I confirmed. “$465,000. The Hendersons seem like lovely people. They’re planning to restore the garden.”
“You can’t sell this house!” Marcus said, his voice rising. “It’s my inheritance! It’s in my name!”
“It was in your name,” I corrected. “I had my lawyer research the legalities. Turns out the transfer ‘for tax purposes’ wasn’t quite as ironclad as you thought. The house was still mine to sell. And I sold it.”
Marcus stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “But… but where will we live?” It was exactly the question I’d expected, and it revealed everything.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” I said kindly. “You’re both capable adults with good jobs.”
“Fine?” Isabelle’s voice cracked. “Genie, you can’t just leave us homeless! We don’t have money for a down payment!”
“You’ve been saving,” I said slowly. “For what?”
They exchanged glances that spoke volumes. They’d been saving for their own future while living rent-free in my house.
“This is insane,” Marcus said, beginning to pace. “Mom, you can’t move to Monaco. You don’t speak French. You don’t know anyone.”
“I’ll learn French,” I said. “I’ll meet people. And if something happens, at least it will happen while I’m living my life instead of waiting to die in a facility you chose for me.”
A car horn honked outside. My taxi. “That’s my ride,” I said.
“Mom, wait,” Marcus followed me to the front door, his voice breaking. “Please don’t go. Not like this.”
I turned to look at him one last time, trying to see the little boy who used to tell me I was his best friend. “I love you, Marcus,” I said. “I will always love you. But I won’t let you treat me like a burden anymore. I raised you to be better than that.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are. But sorry doesn’t give me back the months of planning my own disposal. Sorry doesn’t erase the feeling of being unwanted in my own home.”
Isabelle appeared behind him, mascara streaking down her cheeks. “Genie, please. We’ll do better.”
“You’ll change because you have to now,” I said. “Because your free ride is over. But I’m not interested in being a lesson in gratitude. I’m interested in being happy.” I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.
“Ready?” the taxi driver asked.
I took one last look at the house. “Ready,” I said, and climbed into the car.
As we pulled away, I saw Marcus in the rearview mirror, standing in the doorway of what used to be my house, his shoulders shaking. Isabelle was on her phone, probably calling her parents to negotiate emergency housing. I felt a moment of sadness, but it was a clean sadness, uncomplicated by guilt. They had created this situation. I was simply declining to be their victim.
“Big trip?” the taxi driver asked.
“New life,” I said.
“Good for you,” she replied, catching my eye in the mirror. “Sometimes you gotta shake things up, even when people don’t like it.”
Especially when people don’t like it, I thought. The airport was busy. I checked in, handed over my passport like a veteran traveler, and made my way through security. At the gate, I called my friend Helen.
“How did they take it?” she asked.
“About as well as you’d expect,” I said. “Shock, anger, disbelief, panic, and a lot of questions about where they’re going to live.”
“Good,” Helen said firmly. “Let them figure it out. Maybe it’ll teach them some appreciation.”
“Maybe.”
As the plane lifted off, I pressed my face to the window and watched my old life shrink away. Somewhere down there, Marcus and Isabelle were probably still trying to process what had happened. But that was their problem now. I had my own life to live, my own adventure to begin. The flight attendant appeared with champagne. “Celebrating something special?” she asked.
“Freedom,” I said, accepting the glass. “I’m celebrating freedom.”