Chapter 13 - The Desperate Visit
For three days, I ignored a relentless barrage of calls, texts, and increasingly hysterical emails from Natalie and Graham.
They threatened lawsuits. They threatened to go to the press and drag the Alden name through the mud. They tried to rally distant relatives to their cause, painting me as a senile, vindictive old woman who was cruelly destroying her own family.
But I had already anticipated the social fallout. I had preemptively sent a very quiet, very heavily documented package to the key gossips in my social circle, containing undeniable proof of Natalie’s violent assault at the dinner party, complete with medical photos of my bruised face.
The high-society doors slammed shut in Natalie’s face faster than she could blink. No one wanted to be associated with a spoiled heiress who physically attacked her elderly grandmother.
By Friday evening, the desperation reached a boiling point.
I was sitting in my quiet living room, reading a book by the fireplace, when the heavy brass knocker on my front door began pounding frantically.
I didn't move. I simply pressed a button on my phone to activate the security camera feed.
Natalie was standing on my porch. She looked terrible. Her designer clothes were rumpled, her hair was messy, and her mascara was smudged under her eyes. She looked like a woman who hadn't slept in days.
"Grandma! Open the door! Please!" she sobbed loudly, banging her fists against the thick wood.
I picked up the security intercom microphone on my end table.
"You are trespassing, Natalie," I said, my voice echoing clearly from the speaker above her head. "Leave my property immediately, or I will trigger the silent alarm and the police will arrest you."
She jumped back, startled by my voice, then looked desperately up at the camera lens.
"Please, Grandma! I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry!" she cried, tears streaming down her face, finally deploying the weapon she had used to manipulate me since childhood. "I was stressed! Graham was pressuring me! I didn't mean to hit you, I swear! Please, the bank is taking the house! We have no money for food! Just turn the cards back on!"
I stared at her through the screen. For a fleeting second, a ghost of the old, maternal instinct flared in my chest—the desperate urge to comfort the little girl with the pink schoolbag.
But then I remembered the cold, dead look in her eyes when she slapped me. I remembered her telling me I should have died.
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"You aren't sorry you hit me, Natalie," I said softly into the microphone. "You are only sorry that the ATM finally closed. Go home and start packing your boxes."
I turned off the intercom, muting the feed, and went back to reading my book while she wept on my porch.
