My Daugther woke me before sunrise and said, “Make some coffee and set the table”
My daughter threw my house keys on the counter like she owned the place and announced that she expected breakfast ready at 5 a.m. tomorrow for her new husband, who likes everything his way. Twenty-four hours later, I was setting their alarm for 4 a.m., but the surprise I had planned for their morning coffee was going to give them a wake-up call they’d never forget. Let me tell you how we got to that moment, because what happened next changed everything.
My name is Patricia Whitmore, and at fifty-two, I thought I’d seen every possible way my daughter could disappoint me. Boy, was I wrong about that.
It was a Tuesday in late August when Sophia showed up at my Malibu beach house with her brand-new husband, Derek, three massive suitcases, and an attitude that could have powered the entire Pacific Coast Highway. I was enjoying my morning coffee on the deck, watching the waves roll in, when I heard a car door slam hard enough to wake the dead. Through the glass doors, I could see my twenty-eight-year-old daughter marching up the wooden steps with a man I’d never met trailing behind her like a well-dressed shadow.
«Mom,» she called out, not bothering to knock before pushing through my front door. «We’re here.»
«Here for what exactly?» I hadn’t invited anyone.
The last time we’d spoken was three weeks ago, when she’d hung up on me for suggesting that getting married to someone she’d known for six months might be a bit hasty.
«Sophia,» I said, walking in from the deck with my coffee still in hand. «What a surprise.»
She was already dragging luggage toward the guest staircase, her new husband standing awkwardly by the door like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. Smart man, I thought. He shouldn’t be.
«Derek, this is my mother, Patricia. Mom, this is Derek, my husband.» She said it with that emphasis people use when they want to make sure you understand they’ve made a life-changing decision without consulting you.
Derek stepped forward with what I had to admit was a charming smile and extended his hand. «Mrs. Whitmore, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Sophia talks about this place constantly.»
«Does she?» I shook his hand, noting the expensive watch and the custom-tailored shirt. «And what brings you both to my little sanctuary unannounced?»
«We’re on our honeymoon,» Sophia announced, as if that explained everything. «We wanted somewhere peaceful and private. Plus, hotels are so impersonal, don’t you think?»
I looked around my living room, which was definitely not set up for unexpected houseguests. My yoga mat was still rolled out from my morning routine. There were paintbrushes soaking in a coffee mug from yesterday’s art session. My latest romance novel was face-down on the couch right where I’d left it.
«How long were you thinking of staying?» I asked, though I suspected I wasn’t going to like the answer.
«Just a few days,» Derek said quickly, shooting a look at Sophia that I didn’t miss.
«Maybe a week,» Sophia corrected. «We haven’t really decided. That’s the beauty of being spontaneous, right, Mom? You always said life was about embracing the unexpected.»
I had said that, back when she was sixteen and afraid to try out for the school play. I hadn’t meant it as permission to treat my home like a free hotel thirty-six years later.
«Of course,» I said, because what else could I say? «Let me show you to the guest room.»
As I led them upstairs, I caught Derek looking around with the sort of appreciation that comes from knowing property values. The Beach House had been my sanctuary for the past five years, ever since my divorce from Sophia’s father. It was modest by Malibu standards, but still worth more than most people’s retirement funds.
«This is beautiful, Mrs. Whitmore,» Derek said genuinely. «You have incredible taste.»
«Thank you.» I opened the guest room door, noting that I’d need to change the sheets and clear out the boxes of Christmas decorations I’d been storing on the bed. «I wasn’t expecting company, so give me a few minutes to make it habitable.»
«Don’t go to any trouble, Mom,» Sophia said, already bouncing on the mattress to test it. «We’re just happy to be here.»
Happy. Right.
That afternoon, while they went for a walk on the beach, I prepared the room properly and tried to figure out why this visit felt different from Sophia’s usual dramatic entrances into my life. Maybe it was the way Derek had looked at the house, or maybe it was the fact that she’d gotten married without even telling me, but something was definitely off. By dinnertime, I had my answer.
Derek excused himself to take a phone call, and Sophia helped herself to a glass of my good wine without asking.
«Mom, I need to talk to you about something,» she said, settling onto my couch like she owned it.
«I’m listening.»
«Derek and I, we’re not just here for a romantic getaway.» She paused dramatically, swirling her wine. «We’re here because we think it might be time for you to consider your living situation.»
«My living situation?» I kept my voice level, though something cold was beginning to spread through my chest.
«You’re all alone out here. What if something happened? What if you fell or had an emergency? Derek thinks, and I agree, that it might be safer for you to move into something more manageable. You know, closer to town, maybe a nice condo.»
I stared at my daughter, this woman I’d given birth to, nursed through countless illnesses, supported through her rebellious twenties, and tried to love despite her selfish streak that seemed to grow wider every year.
«And you thought you’d just show up here and convince me to sell my house?»
«Not sell it exactly,» she took another sip of wine, avoiding my eyes. «Derek has some experience in real estate investment. He thinks this property could be much better utilized if it was, you know, properly managed.»
The pieces clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. The unexpected visit, the new husband with the expensive taste, the suggestion that I was too old and frail to live safely in my own home.
«How thoughtful of Derek to take such an interest in my welfare,» I said.
«Mom, don’t be like that. We’re trying to help you.»
«Help me what, exactly?»
«Make some smart financial decisions. You could live very comfortably on the proceeds from this place, and Derek could handle all the investment details. It would be like having your own personal financial advisor.»
For twenty-eight years, I’d watched my daughter’s gift for rationalization, but this was impressive even for her. She’d married a stranger and was now sitting in my living room, suggesting I hand over my home to him for proper management.
«That’s incredibly generous,» I said, «but I’m quite happy with my current living situation.»
Sophia’s smile tightened. «Mom, you’re not getting any younger. Wouldn’t it be better to make these changes while you can still enjoy the benefits?»
Derek chose that moment to return from his phone call, his charming smile back in place. «Sorry about that. Business never stops. You know how it is.»
«Actually, I don’t,» I said. «What business are you in, Derek?»
«Property development, investment consulting. I help people maximize their real estate potential.»
«How convenient.»
The three of us sat there for a moment, the tension thick enough to spread on toast. Derek seemed to sense that his new wife’s subtle approach wasn’t working.
«Mrs. Whitmore,» he said, leaning forward with the kind of sincerity that probably worked wonders in board meetings. «I hope you don’t think we’re being presumptuous. Sophia just worries about you. And when she told me about this beautiful property sitting here underutilized…»
«Underutilized?»
«Well, for one person, it seems like a lot of house.»
I looked around my living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean, the fireplace I’d spent countless evenings reading beside, the kitchen where I taught myself to cook for one and discovered I actually enjoyed it.
«You’re right,» I said finally. «It is a lot of house for one person. That’s what makes it perfect.»
The next morning was when Sophia dropped the bomb that would change everything. I was making scrambled eggs for three when my daughter delivered the speech that revealed exactly how entitled she’d become in the four days since I’d become Mrs. Derek Castellano.
«Mom, I need to talk to you about expectations,» Sophia said, not looking up from her phone while I stood at the stove like hired help.
«What kind of expectations?»
Derek was seated at my kitchen counter, reading financial news on his tablet and occasionally making little humming sounds at whatever he was discovering about market trends. He’d been doing that since yesterday, treating my home like his personal office space.
«Well, since we’re staying here, I think it’s important to establish some ground rules,» Sophia finally looked up, and I saw that expression I remembered from her teenage years when she was about to announce something I wouldn’t like.
«Ground rules,» I repeated, flipping eggs that were starting to smell better than this conversation was going.
«Derek has very specific requirements for his morning routine. He’s an early riser, likes to get his day started right. Quality nutrition, quiet environment for his morning calls with the East Coast.»
I glanced at Derek, who was nodding along like his wife was discussing something perfectly reasonable instead of treating my house like a luxury hotel where the staff could be instructed.
«That sounds like Derek’s problem to solve,» I said pleasantly.
«Actually, Mom, I was hoping you could help with that.» Sophia’s voice took on that wheedling tone that she used to use when she was seven and wanted an extra bedtime story. «Since you’re always up early anyway, and you love to cook.»
I love to cook for myself. On my schedule.
Derek looked up from his tablet with a smile that probably cost him thousands in dental work. «Mrs. Whitmore, what Sophia is trying to say is that we’d be incredibly grateful for any assistance you could provide as the host.»
You know, «host,» as if I’d invited them to come disrupt my peaceful existence and then start making demands about breakfast service.
«I see,» I said, turning back to my eggs before I said something that would reveal exactly how I was feeling about their attitude.
«It doesn’t have to be anything elaborate,» Sophia continued, apparently taking my silence as agreement. «Just something ready by 5 a.m. Derek likes his coffee strong, no sugar, and maybe some Eggs Benedict or fresh fruit. Nothing too complicated.»
5 a.m. She wanted me to get up at 4 a.m. to prepare Eggs Benedict for her husband of six days, who had the audacity to suggest my home was underutilized.
«Eggs Benedict,» I said slowly, «or whatever you think is appropriate.»
«You’re so good at this domestic stuff, Mom. It’s really one of your strengths.»
One of my strengths. Like domestic service was a talent I should be proud to share, rather than a set of skills I developed to take care of my own home and my own life.
I served their breakfast and watched Derek cut into his eggs with the precision of someone who’d never had to cook for himself. He’d probably lived his entire adult life with women eager to prove their worth by anticipating his needs.
«This is delicious,» he said. «You’re quite the chef, Mrs. Whitmore.»
«Thank you.»
«It’s really perfect training for when you move into a smaller place,» Sophia added, apparently unable to let the real estate conversation go. «You’ll have so much more time for cooking when you don’t have all this space to maintain.»
After breakfast, they announced they were driving into town to explore and would be back for dinner. They said it like I’d be waiting here ready to prepare their evening meal—which, I suppose, from their perspective, I would be. But as I watched their rental car disappear down my driveway, I wasn’t thinking about dinner preparations. I was thinking about alarm clocks and exactly what kind of surprise I could prepare for Derek’s 5 a.m. breakfast requirement.
I spent the afternoon doing research, not the kind Derek would expect, though. I started with my laptop, looking up property records and investment companies. Derek Castellano owned three LLCs, two of which had been dissolved in the past year. His property development business had exactly one project listed: a small apartment building in Riverside that was currently in foreclosure proceedings.
Interesting.
I also discovered that Derek had been married once before to a woman named Jennifer Walsh, who’d owned a successful catering business in San Diego. The business had been sold suddenly two years ago, right around the time their divorce was finalized.
Even more interesting.
But the most interesting thing I found was a small article in a Riverside newspaper about a lawsuit filed by elderly homeowners who claimed they’d been pressured into selling their properties below market value to an investment company that promised to handle all the details and pay them monthly proceeds that never materialized. The company was called Castellano Holdings LLC.
By the time Sophia and Derek returned from their town exploration, I had a much clearer picture of what they were really doing here. And I had a plan.
«How was your day?» I asked as they came through the door with shopping bags from expensive boutiques.
«Wonderful,» Sophia said, dropping packages on my coffee table. «We found this amazing real estate office in town. The agent said properties like this one are incredibly sought after. She mentioned that similar houses have sold for well above asking price recently.»
«Really,» Derek nodded enthusiastically. «The market is exceptionally strong right now for coastal properties. It might be the perfect time to make a move if you were considering it.»
«You know, I’ve been thinking about what you both said,» I replied, and watched them exchange a quick look of triumph.
«That’s wonderful, Mom. I knew you’d see the logic in it.»
«Yes, the logic is quite clear.» I smiled at Derek. «And I’ve been thinking about your breakfast requirements too. 5 a.m. is quite early.»
«I know it’s an imposition,» Derek said, though his tone suggested he didn’t find it imposing at all. «But I really do function better with a proper start to the day.»
«Of course you do. I completely understand.» I looked directly at him, noting the way he was already relaxing into what he thought was victory. «I’ll make sure everything is ready for you tomorrow morning. Something special.»
«You’re the best, Mom,» Sophia said, kissing my cheek like we just concluded a business deal rather than discussing my role as their unpaid household staff.
That evening, I served them dinner on my good china and listened to them discuss their plans for maximizing the property’s potential as if I weren’t sitting right there. They talked about removing walls, updating fixtures, and creating multiple revenue streams through vacation rentals. They were carving up my home like it was already theirs.
After they went upstairs, I cleaned the kitchen and then sat on my deck with a glass of wine, listening to the waves and planning tomorrow’s breakfast surprise. Derek wanted everything his way, and Derek was an early riser who valued his routine. Perfect. I was going to give him exactly what he’d asked for.
At 4 a.m., my alarm went off just like I’d promised, but Derek and Sophia had no idea what they’d actually requested when they turned me into their personal breakfast chef. I moved quietly through my dark kitchen, muscle memory guiding me as I prepared what would definitely be the most memorable meal of Derek’s life.
The sunrise was still two hours away, but I was wide awake and absolutely focused on the task at hand. Coffee first. Derek liked it strong, no sugar. I ground the beans fresh, just the way he’d specified, and added my own special ingredient: a hefty dose of sennosides, the active component in natural laxative tablets. Enough to turn his digestive system into a ticking time bomb, but not enough to actually harm him. Just enough to make his day extremely uncomfortable.
While the coffee brewed, I prepared his Eggs Benedict. I’d been cooking for thirty-four years, so creating a picture-perfect breakfast wasn’t challenging. What was challenging was deciding exactly how much additional seasoning to add to ensure Derek’s morning would be as memorable as mine was about to be. I’d crushed up three more laxative tablets and mixed them into the hollandaise sauce. The beauty of hollandaise is that it already has such a complex flavor that a little extra bitterness would be completely masked by the lemon and butter.
For Sophia’s breakfast, I prepared regular scrambled eggs and toast. She hadn’t made demands about timing or service, so she’d get exactly what she’d always gotten from me—the bare minimum effort required to avoid being accused of being an unloving mother.
At exactly 4:47 a.m., I heard movement upstairs. Derek’s internal clock was apparently as precise as his demands. I arranged his breakfast beautifully on my best plates and waited.
«Mrs. Whitmore?» Derek appeared in the kitchen wearing an expensive silk robe and looking surprised to see everything ready. «You actually did this? You said 5 a.m.»
«I aim to please.»
He sat down at the counter, and I poured his specially prepared coffee into my finest china cup.
«This smells fantastic. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.»
«No trouble at all.» I watched him take his first sip and smiled. «I believe in giving people exactly what they ask for.»
Derek ate with the enthusiasm of someone who’d grown accustomed to having his needs anticipated and met without question. He complimented the eggs, praised the coffee, and told me how much he appreciated having someone who understood the importance of routine.
«You’re quite the hostess,» he said, finishing his last bite. «Sophia was right when she said you had a gift for this.»
«I have many gifts,» I replied. «Some of them take longer to reveal themselves than others.»
Sophia eventually wandered downstairs in her pajamas, looking like she’d expected to find me already cleaning up after her husband’s breakfast.
«Oh, good. You actually did it,» she said, as if there had been some question about whether I’d follow through on their ridiculous request.
«Of course I did it. I always do what I say I’m going to do.»
«This is exactly what I was talking about yesterday,» she continued, helping herself to coffee. «You’re so good at taking care of people.»
It’s really what makes you happy, taking care of people—as opposed to having my own life, my own interests, my own schedule. According to my daughter, my highest calling was serving breakfast to her husband at dawn.
