I Woke Up From A 3-month Coma Only To Find My Son Had Sold My Family Home Behind My Back. He Claimed It Was For Medical Bills, But Then I Saw His Photos From A Luxury Vacation In The Maldives. He Has No Idea I Revoked His Power Of Attorney Just Days Before My Accident.
Waking Up to a Nightmare
I woke up to the sterile smell of disinfectant and the steady beep of a heart monitor. My eyes struggled to focus on the white ceiling tiles above me. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was or how I got there.
Then it all came rushing back: the black SUV running the red light, the crushing sound of metal, the darkness. A nurse noticed I was awake and rushed to my side.
“Mr. Patterson, can you hear me? You’re in Portland General Hospital. You’ve been unconscious for almost 3 months.”
“3 months?”
The words didn’t make sense. I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. The nurse brought water and slowly, painfully, I managed to ask the question that had formed in my foggy mind.
“My son, Brandon… is he here?”
The nurse’s expression shifted slightly.
“Your son visits regularly. I’ll call him right away. He’ll be so relieved you’re awake.”
Brandon arrived within the hour. He burst through the door with what looked like genuine concern on his face, though looking back now, I wonder if I was just seeing what I wanted to see. He was 42 years old, tall like me, with the same dark hair I had before it turned gray.
He hugged me carefully, mindful of the tubes and wires still connected to my body.
“Dad, thank God. We thought we’d lost you.”
“What happened?”
I asked, my voice still weak.
“Car accident. You don’t remember? A drunk driver ran a red light on Morrison Street. Your car flipped twice.”
He squeezed my hand.
“The doctor said you were lucky to survive it all.”
Over the next few days, as I regained my strength, Brandon visited every evening. He brought me updates about my recovery, about the physical therapy I’d need, about the long road ahead. But there was something else in his visits—a tension I couldn’t quite place.
He seemed eager to discuss certain topics and evasive about others. On the fourth day, he brought papers.
“Dad, we need to talk about some practical matters,”
he said, sitting in the chair beside my bed.
“While you were unconscious, there were decisions that had to be made. Medical expenses, the house, everything.”
The Unthinkable Sacrifice
“What about the house?”
I asked, suddenly alert despite the medication. Brandon wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Dad, the medical bills were enormous. The insurance covered some of it, but there were gaps. Experimental treatments, specialists… I had to make some difficult choices.”
My chest tightened, and it wasn’t from my injuries.
“What kind of choices?”
“I sold the house,”
he said quickly, as if saying it faster would make it hurt less.
“I had power of attorney. The bills were piling up, and I thought it was the only way.”
The house—the three-bedroom Craftsman on Northwest 23rd Avenue that my wife Catherine and I had bought 35 years ago, where we’d raised Brandon. Where Catherine had died 5 years earlier from cancer in our bedroom, holding my hand. Where every corner held a memory.
“You sold our house?”
I whispered.
“I had no choice, Dad. The bills were over $400,000. The house sold for $850,000. After the realtor fees and closing costs, we cleared about $790,000. The medical bills are paid, and there’s money left for your recovery and care.”
Something didn’t add up, but my mind was still foggy from the medication and the shock.
“Where am I going to live when I get out?”
“I’ve arranged everything,”
Brandon said, his voice taking on a practiced, professional tone—the same tone he used with his real estate clients.
“There’s a nice assisted living facility in Beaverton. You’ll have your own apartment, 24-hour care, everything you need.”
“I don’t need assisted living,”
I protested.
“I need my home.”
“Dad, you’re 68 years old, and you were in a coma for 3 months. You’re going to need round-the-clock care for a while. This is the best solution.”
But it wasn’t about what was best for me. Even through my weakened state, I could sense that. It was about what was convenient for Brandon.
Digital Evidence
The next day, when Brandon wasn’t there, I asked the nurse to bring me my phone. My hands trembled as I scrolled through Facebook, Instagram, all the places young people documented their lives.
It took me a while to find Brandon’s Instagram account. He’d blocked me months ago after I’d criticized some of his posts, and I’d never bothered to look at his social media since then. But I could still search for him publicly.
What I saw made my blood run cold. There, dated just 6 weeks ago while I was supposedly in a coma fighting for my life, was a photo of Brandon and his wife Amber on a pristine beach.
The caption read: “Finally taking that dream vacation to the Maldives. Worth every penny. Living our best life.”
The post had a location tag: Conrad Maldives Rangali Island. I scrolled further. More photos from the Maldives: Brandon in the infinity pool, Amber with a cocktail at sunset, a video of them on a private yacht.
Another post from 2 weeks ago showed Brandon standing next to a brand new silver Tesla Model S.
“New ride. Dreams do come true.”
My son had spent my money while I lay unconscious. While he told the hospital staff and my friends that he was making difficult sacrifices to pay for my care, he’d been living like a lottery winner. I closed my eyes, but the images remained burned in my mind.
The rage that filled me was unlike anything I’d ever felt. Not just because of the money, but because of the betrayal.
I’d spent my entire life supporting Brandon. I’d paid for his college when he couldn’t get scholarships, I’d co-signed his first mortgage, I’d bailed him out of bad business deals more than once. And this was how he repaid me.
