My Son Claimed I Had Early Onset Dementia To Take Over My Assets. I Just Found Out He’s Been Swapping My Blood Pressure Meds To Make Me Confused. Should I File A Police Report Against My Own Child?

The Wilting Tulips

The tulips in the garden bed were wilting, not from lack of water or disease, but because someone had planted them in full shade. I’d spent 40 years as a librarian, and even I knew tulips needed sun.

My son Brian had always been good with plants. He’d helped me maintain this garden since his father died. But these tulips, purchased just last month, were planted in the worst possible spot, almost like someone wanted them to die.

I stood at my kitchen window on that Tuesday morning in March, coffee cooling in my hands, and felt something shift in my chest. It was the same feeling I’d had three months ago when I noticed my mail arriving later and later each day.

It was the same feeling when my password stopped working on my bank account. The same feeling when Brian started answering questions I hadn’t asked.

My name is Margaret Chen, but everyone calls me Maggie. I’m 67 years old, and for the past year, I’ve been living in what I thought was my own house in Portland, Oregon.

The small brick colonial on Maple Street that Richard and I bought in 1982. The house where we raised Brian. The house Richard died in peacefully in his sleep three years ago.

After Richard passed, I’d gotten into a routine: volunteer at the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays, book club on Wednesdays, lunch with my friend Linda every Friday. It wasn’t exciting, but it was mine. I was content.

A New Family Dynamic

Then Brian got remarried. Her name was Vanessa, 38 years old, barely older than Brian’s daughter from his first marriage. She had honey-blonde hair, perfect teeth, and a way of touching Brian’s arm whenever she spoke.

They’d met at his real estate office. She was a new agent; he was the broker. Six months later, they were married in a small ceremony at the courthouse.

I wasn’t invited. Brian said they wanted to keep it simple, but I knew better. His first wife, Jennifer, had been kind to me and had brought the grandchildren over every weekend.

But the divorce had been nasty. Jennifer moved to California with the kids, and suddenly Brian was alone at 45. Vanessa filled that void quickly.

At first, I was happy for him. A mother wants her son to be happy. But then the visits changed.

Brian used to stop by on Sundays, just him and me, talking about work and sharing stories about his father. But after Vanessa, the visits became appointments. They’d call first, they’d arrive together, and Vanessa always had suggestions.

“This house is so big for just you, Maggie,” she’d say, her voice dripping with concern. “Have you thought about downsizing? Brian and I could help you sell. The market’s great right now.”

“I’m fine here,” I’d tell her.

“But what if something happens? What if you fall?” She’d glance at Brian, who’d nod along. “You should really think about it.”

I didn’t want to think about it. This was my home. Every corner held a memory: Richard proposing to me in the living room, Brian’s first steps in the hallway, the kitchen where I’d baked birthday cakes for 30 years.

Signing Away Control

I wasn’t ready to let go, but the suggestions kept coming. And then, six months ago, they offered to help with my finances.

“Mom, you’re terrible with paperwork,” Brian said one Sunday. “Let me take some of that burden off your shoulders. I work with this stuff every day.”

I hesitated, but he was my son, my only child. I trusted him. So I signed a power of attorney, just for financial matters, he said, just to make things easier.

He could pay my bills, handle my investments, make sure everything was organized. “You won’t have to worry about anything,” he promised.

And I didn’t, for a while. But then the mail stopped coming. Brian said he’d set up paperless billing for everything. “More efficient,” he explained. “Better for the environment.”

I didn’t question it. Then my debit card was declined at the grocery store. I called Brian, embarrassed.

“There must have been a mistake,” he said. “He’d fix it right away.”

The next day, a new card arrived: different bank, different account number. “I consolidated things,” Brian explained when I asked. “Moved everything to a better bank with lower fees. You’ll save money this way.”

I should have asked more questions. I should have demanded to see statements. But I was tired.

Grief has a way of making you tired, even years later. And Brian was so confident, so helpful. Why would I doubt my own son?

The Email in the Trash

The morning I found the email, I wasn’t even looking for anything. I was just taking out the trash. Brian and Vanessa had been over the night before for dinner.

Vanessa had used my printer, said she needed to print something for a client. The trash can in my home office was full, and when I pulled the bag out, a crumpled piece of paper fell out.

I almost threw it away without looking, but something made me unfold it. It was an email from Vanessa’s account to someone named Marcus Reeves at Pacific Trust Lending.

“Hi Marcus,” it read. “Attached is the signed authorization for the cash-out refinance on the property at 847 Maple Street. Borrower signature is dated yesterday. We need to move fast on this one. The appraisal came back at $680,000 and we’re requesting the full 80% LTV. Wire the funds to the account we discussed. Thanks, V.”

I read it three times before my hands started shaking. My house. My house that was paid off.

Richard had made the final payment two years before he died, and we’d celebrated with champagne and dinner at our favorite restaurant.

“No more mortgage,” he’d said. “No more debt. This house is ours, Maggie. Really ours.”

But according to this email, someone had refinanced it. And that someone had forged my signature. I sat down at my desk, the paper trembling in my hands.

My mind was racing. Who was Marcus Reeves? What authorization? What signature?