My name is Eleanor Grace Whitmore. For nearly 50 years, my husband Richard and I built Hazelbrook Orchards with our own hands. Three weeks ago, I buried him after his fight with pancreatic cancer.
I thought our children, Darren and Samantha, would come home to mourn with me. Instead, they brought contracts and talked about “practicality.” Darren claimed Richard had signed the orchard over to him. They’d already picked out a retirement home for me and planned to sell the land for millions.
When I asked to see the will, they slid papers across the table. I didn’t touch them.
The next morning, they tried to take me to “tour” the retirement home—but instead, Darren pulled off onto a dirt road and told me this was my stop.
They thought I’d go quietly.
But I’d packed more than my medication. I had the deed to 20 acres under my maiden name—the key to the entire development deal.
They underestimated me. The orchard isn’t gone. And neither am I.
