When Margaret was discharged, I invited them to stay at my house. My mother had passed two years earlier; the spare room felt emptier than I admitted. They resisted at first, afraid of being a burden. I insisted.
With them in my home, everything came alive. Margaret revived my neglected garden. Thomas fixed doors I had ignored for months. Laughter returned to my kitchen.
Ten days later, Brian appeared in an expensive suit and luxury car. “It was a misunderstanding,” he claimed smoothly. “We thought they’d caught a ride.”
Margaret trembled. Thomas stood stiff.
“You left us in the sun like trash,” Thomas said quietly.
Brian dropped the act. “They’re old. I came to take them home.”
“They’re staying here,” I said. “Unless they choose otherwise.”
He sneered. “Who are you to interfere?”
“I’m a doctor,” I replied. “And I recognize abuse.”
He left threatening to return—with his siblings.
That night Thomas finally told me the truth. The envelope held the deed to a thirty-hectare farm outside town—fertile land with water and an old farmhouse. The sole owner: Emily Bennett.