After My Wife Passed, I Gave My Son Power Of Attorney Because I Trusted Him With Everything. I Just Found Out He’s Been Draining Tens Of Thousands Every Month For His Secret Gambling Debts. Tonight, I Caught Him Sneaking Into My Office To Photograph My Final Will.

The Bank Transfer

“Mr. Patterson, do you mind if we talk in private for just a moment?”

The bank teller’s voice was calm, but something in her eyes made me pause. I’d been standing at the counter for maybe two minutes, check in hand, ready to wire $75,000 to what my son Marcus called an investment opportunity that couldn’t wait.

The kind of opportunity that required immediate action, he’d said.

“The kind that would secure both our futures.”

“Is there a problem with the transfer?”

I asked, glancing at the paperwork Marcus had prepared for me that morning.

“No problem at all, sir. I just… I need to verify a few details. Standard procedure for larger amounts.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“There’s a private office just through that door. It’ll only take a minute.”

I should have felt annoyed. I’m 68 years old, a retired aerospace engineer who managed multi-million dollar projects for 30 years. I know how to handle my own finances. But something about the way she’d said “private” made me follow her.

The office was small, just a desk and two chairs. She closed the door, and suddenly her professional composure cracked slightly.

“Mr. Patterson, when was the last time you personally reviewed your complete bank statements?”

The question caught me off guard.

“I… My son helps me with that. Marcus handles most of my paperwork since my wife passed. Why?”

She pulled out a folder.

“Sir, I’m not supposed to do this. I could lose my job for what I’m about to show you, but I’ve been a teller here for 12 years and I’ve seen this pattern before.”

She slid papers across the desk.

“These are your account statements for the past eight months.”

I looked down at the numbers, confused at first. Then I saw them. Transfers. Dozens of them. 5,000 here, 3,500 there, 8,000. All made to accounts I didn’t recognize. All authorized by my power of attorney. All signed by Marcus.

“That’s… That’s not possible,” I heard myself say. “Marcus wouldn’t…”

“Mr. Patterson, in the last eight months, approximately $247,000 has been transferred out of your accounts. This 75,000 would bring it over 300,000.”

She leaned forward.

“Sir, I need to ask you directly: are you aware of these transactions?”

The room felt like it was tilting.

“No… No, I’m not.”

“Then I strongly suggest you don’t make this transfer today. And sir…”

She pulled out a business card.

“This is the number for Adult Protective Services. I think you need to call them.”

I sat in that office for 20 minutes staring at those statements. $247,000 gone, and I hadn’t known. Hadn’t even suspected. How could I have been so blind?

A Father’s Grief

Let me back up. Let me tell you how I got here, to this moment where a stranger showed me more loyalty than my own son.

My wife Catherine died two years ago. Pancreatic cancer. Six weeks from diagnosis to funeral. We’d been married 43 years.

When she died, something in me died too. The house we’d shared, the one we’d raised Marcus in, suddenly felt enormous and empty. I’d wake up at 3:00 in the morning and forget she was gone, reach across the bed for her.

Marcus seemed to understand. He’d always been close to his mother, and her death hit him hard too. Or so I thought.

He started coming by more often. At first just for dinner once a week, then twice. Then he suggested he move into the guest house out back, just for a while, to keep me company.

“Dad, you shouldn’t be alone right now,” he’d said. “Let me help. Let me be here for you.”

I was grateful. Marcus was 42, divorced five years back, no kids. He worked in tech sales, made decent money, seemed to have his life together. Having him around felt like having family again. Having purpose.

“Your mom always handled the bills,” I told him one night over dinner, three months after the funeral. “I’m drowning in paperwork. Insurance, the mortgage, investment statements… I don’t know where to start.”

“Let me take care of it,” Marcus had offered immediately. “Dad, you taught me how to be responsible with money. Let me return the favor. You focus on healing. I’ll handle the finances.”

It seemed like such a gift at the time. Such a kindness. I signed the power of attorney papers he brought me the next week.

Just a formality, he said. Just so he could handle things when I didn’t feel up to it. He had it all prepared, explained that his friend who was a lawyer had drawn it up. I barely read it. Why would I? This was my son.

That was eight months ago. For eight months, Marcus had free access to every account, every investment, every penny Catherine and I had saved across 40 years of marriage and careful planning.

My Boeing pension, the life insurance payout, our retirement savings. And he’d been draining it slowly and systematically while I sat in my empty house missing my wife.