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.
Justice Served
The preliminary hearing was three weeks later. I sat in the courtroom and watched Marcus walk in with his public defender. He wouldn’t look at me.
The evidence was overwhelming. Sarah’s investigator had found everything: the fake lawyer, a friend of Marcus from college who’d been disbarred three years ago. The forged signatures on some of the transfer documents. The offshore gambling accounts showing losses of over $600,000 in the past two years. The private loans he’d taken out using my house as promised collateral.
The judge revoked his bail when the prosecution demonstrated he was a flight risk.
“Your Honor,” Marcus’ attorney had argued, “My client has no passport and no means to flee.”
“Your client has stolen nearly half a million,” the judge replied coldly. “He has means. Bail revoked. Trial date set for eight weeks from today.”
As they led Marcus out in handcuffs, he finally looked at me. The expression on his face wasn’t shame or remorse. It was rage. Pure, undiluted rage. Like I’d done something wrong. Like I’d betrayed him.
That night Tom drove down from Seattle to stay with me. He found me sitting in my study looking at a photo of Marcus’s high school graduation. Catherine was in the picture, beaming with pride. Marcus had his arm around her.
“I loved him so much,” I said. “We both did.”
“I know.”
“Where did I go wrong? What did I do that made him capable of this?”
Tom sat down across from me.
“Bill, you didn’t make him do anything. You and Catherine were good parents. You gave him every opportunity. This isn’t about you. This is about choices. He made choices. He kept making every day for eight months.”
“He’s going to prison.”
“Yes.”
“He’s my son.”
“I know, Bill. I know.”
The trial took four days. The jury deliberated for two hours. Guilty on all counts.
Marcus received seven years. With good behavior, he’d be out in five.
The judge ordered restitution, but Sarah was pessimistic.
“He has no assets, Mr. Patterson. The money went to gambling sites and loan sharks. We might recover 50,000 if we’re lucky. The rest is gone.”
Gone. 40 years of saving. Catherine’s memory. Our future. Gone.
But I still had the house. I still had my pension. I could rebuild. Sarah said I was only 68. I had time.
A Letter From Prison
That should have been the end of the story. Justice served. Bad son punished. Victim vindicated. But it’s not that simple.
Three months after sentencing, I got a letter from Marcus. The prison had forwarded it. It was short.
“Dad, I’m not asking for forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know something. I didn’t start out wanting to steal from you. I was going to pay it back. That first 5,000… that was just to cover the gambling debt so they’d stop threatening me. I was going to return it after my next commission check. But then I needed more. And then more. And it was so easy. You trusted me so completely. You never even checked the statements. By the time I realized I was in too deep, I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t face what I’d become. The lies got bigger and the hole got deeper and I just kept digging. I’m not making excuses. I did this. All of it. But I need you to know it started from desperation, not malice. I never wanted to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to stop.”
I read that letter 20 times. It didn’t make what he did okay. It didn’t erase the betrayal or the theft or the fact that he’d been willing to have me declared incompetent to cover his tracks. But it was the first time he’d been honest with me in years.
I thought about it for two weeks. Then I did something Sarah advised against. I went to visit him.
Marcus looked terrible. Prison orange, hollow eyes, 30 lb lighter. We sat across from each other with a plastic barrier between us, phones in our hands.
“You came,” he said. His voice cracked.
“I came.”
“Why?”
“Good question. Because you’re still my son. I’m still your father. And I need to understand.”
We talked for 45 minutes. He told me about the gambling. How it started as just a fun distraction after his divorce. How it escalated. The debts. The threats. The desperation.
“When Mom died and you were so lost… I saw an opportunity,” he admitted. “God, that sounds terrible. But you have to understand, they were threatening to kill me. These weren’t just credit card companies. These were serious people. I was terrified.”
“So you stole from your grieving father.”
“Yes.” He looked at me directly for the first time. “I did. And I convinced myself I was helping us both. That I’d win it back and you’d never know and everyone would be fine. That’s what addicts do, Dad. We lie to everyone. Especially ourselves.”
“You were going to take my house.”
“I know.”
“You tried to have me declared incompetent.”
“I know. Marcus, you weren’t trying to pay off debts by that point. You were trying to destroy me.”
His face crumpled.
“I know. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. I was in survival mode. And you were just an obstacle. And I… I forgot you were my father. I forgot you were a person. All I could see was money I needed, and you were in my way.”
I sat there looking at my son cry through a prison phone and I felt nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Not even pity. Just emptiness.
“I’ve spent three months wondering what I did wrong,” I said. “What kind of father raises a son who could do this? Catherine would be heartbroken.”
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t bring Mom into this. She’s already in it.”
“That life insurance money you stole… that was her final gift to us. To me. So I’d be secure after she was gone. You took that and gambled it away.”
He was sobbing now.
“I know. I know, Dad. I’m so sorry. I’m so…”
“I know you are. But sorry doesn’t give me back 40 years of savings. Sorry doesn’t return the money Mom worked so hard for. Sorry doesn’t undo eight months of betrayal.”
“Then why did you come? To make me feel worse?”
“I came because a very wise bank teller told me something. She said that seeing the pattern is what matters. Understanding how it happens. How people rationalize. How they justify. She said if I understood, maybe I could protect myself from ever being this blind again. So this is a lesson for you.”
“No, Marcus. It’s a goodbye.”
