My Daughter Tried To Convince Everyone I Had Dementia To Steal My Millions. She Forgot I’m A Retired Engineer Who Recorded Everything. Was My Revenge Too Cruel?
A Disturbance in the Estate
Three weeks after I signed over power of attorney to my daughter, my estate attorney called me and said, “Mr. Morrison, I need you to come to my office immediately. Someone has been forging your signature on legal documents. Don’t tell your family. Come alone.”
The phone rang on a Thursday morning. I was sitting in my study, the one room in the house that still felt like mine. Coffee getting cold on the desk, classical music playing softly from the old radio my wife had given me for our 40th anniversary.
Two years since she passed. Two years of trying to find a reason to get up each morning. “Mr. Morrison,” Richard Hastings’ voice was tight, controlled. He’d been my attorney for 23 years; I’d never heard him sound like this. “I need to see you today. Can you come to my office at 2:00?”
I glanced at my calendar, empty like most days now. “Of course. Is everything all right with the estate?” A pause, too long. “I’d rather discuss this in person. And Walter, this is important: come alone. Don’t mention this call to anyone in your household.”,
My hand tightened on the receiver. “Richard, you’re scaring me.” “2:00. I’ll explain everything then.” He hung up.
The Weight of the House
I sat there, phone still pressed to my ear, staring at the framed photograph on my desk. Margaret and me on our last anniversary trip to Savannah. She’d loved the Spanish moss, the old architecture. Six months later she was gone. Pancreatic cancer, fast and merciless.
The house felt different after that call. Heavier, somehow. From downstairs, I heard my daughter’s voice, sharp, demanding, the way it had become over the past 18 months since she and her husband moved in.
“Dad, did you move the checkbook again? I need to pay the landscapers.” I closed my eyes. The landscapers. My landscapers for my lawn. But somehow my daughter had taken over paying them, taken over paying everything.
“It’s in the kitchen drawer,” I called back. “Same place it always is.” Her footsteps on the stairs, then she appeared in my doorway. Karen, 42 years old, my eldest. She’d been a sweet child once, curious, kind, always bringing home injured birds and stray cats.,
“I don’t know where you think it should go, but I’ve been looking for 10 minutes.” She crossed her arms. “And Greg needs to talk to you about the car situation.” The car situation. My car, the sedan I’d driven for eight years. Somehow it had become Greg’s primary vehicle while my son-in-law’s own truck sat in my driveway, supposedly needing repairs he never seemed to get around to.
“I’ll come down in a minute.” “Fine, but we need to discuss the household budget too. Expenses are going up.” She left. No “please,” no “thank you.” Just demands and departures.
I turned back to the window. Charlotte spread out below my hillside home. I’d built this house 35 years ago, back when this neighborhood was nothing but trees and potential. Raised two children here, buried my wife from here.
The Meeting with Richard
Forty-one years as a civil engineer. Projects across three states: bridges, highways, water treatment facilities. I’d built things that would outlast me by a century. Now I couldn’t even find my own checkbook.,
The drive to Richard’s office took 20 minutes. I didn’t tell Karen where I was going, just said I had an appointment. She barely looked up from her phone.
Richard Hastings had his practice in a restored Victorian building near Uptown. Tall ceilings, original hardwood floors, the kind of place that whispered old money and older secrets. His paralegal showed me straight to his office. No waiting. That alone told me something was wrong.
“Walter.” Richard stood, shook my hand, gestured to a chair. “Can I get you water? Coffee?” “Just tell me what’s happening.” He sat behind his desk, pulled a manila folder from a drawer. Thick, official-looking.
“Three weeks ago, you signed a general power of attorney giving your daughter Karen authority over your financial affairs. Do you remember that?” “Of course I remember. I’m 67, not senile. She said it would make things easier. Help with the bills, the house maintenance. I was tired of dealing with all of it after Margaret passed.”,
Richard nodded slowly. “And do you also remember signing documents transferring 30% of your investment portfolio into a joint account with Karen and your son Tyler?” I stared at him. “I never signed anything like that.”
Richard opened the folder, turned it so I could see three pages. Legal language, my signature at the bottom of each one. But the signature wasn’t mine. Close, very close. Someone had practiced. But the ‘W’ was wrong. I’d signed my name a hundred thousand times over 41 years. I knew my own handwriting like I knew my own face in the mirror.
“I didn’t sign these.” “I know,” Richard’s voice was quiet. “That’s why I called you.”
