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 Goodbye

His face went white.

“Dad…”

“I’m not pressing for maximum restitution. My lawyer says we could go after your future earnings, garnish your wages when you get out. I’m not going to do that. You’ll serve your time and when you’re released, you’ll have a chance to rebuild your life. But not with me in it.”

“Dad, please.”

“I’m changing my will. Everything goes to charity when I die. You’ll inherit nothing. Not because I’m punishing you, but because I don’t trust you. I’ll never trust you again.”

“I’m your son.”

“Yes. And that’s the tragedy. Because I loved you more than anything in this world. But love isn’t enough when trust is gone. And Marcus… the trust is gone. You killed it. Slowly. Systematically. Over eight months. You killed every bit of trust I had in you.”

He was shaking.

“Don’t do this. Please. I need to know that someday… maybe years from now… we could…”

“No.” I stood up. “I’m 68 years old. I don’t have years to wait for maybe. I have whatever time I have left, and I’m going to spend it with people who actually care about me. People who didn’t see my grief as an opportunity.”

“I love you, Dad.”

Those words. They’d meant so much to me my whole life. Now they were just sounds.

“I know you do. In your own broken way, I believe you love me. But son… sometimes love just isn’t enough.”

I hung up the phone and walked out. I haven’t been back.

Rebuilding With Help

Six months after the trial, I took Jennifer Chen, the bank teller who saved my life, out to dinner. Fancy place. My treat.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, but she was smiling.

“Yes, I did. You saw something wrong and you did something about it. You risked your job to help a stranger.”

“You weren’t a stranger, Mr. Patterson. You were a customer in trouble. That’s my job.”

“Your job is to process transactions. What you did was way beyond that.”

She shrugged, but I could see she was pleased.

“I saw my grandmother go through something similar. Her nephew emptied her accounts. By the time anyone noticed, she’d lost everything. Had to sell her house, move into assisted living. She died six months later. I think from heartbreak as much as anything. I swore if I ever saw that pattern again, I’d do something.”

“I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

“Me too.” She paused. “Can I ask you something? How are you doing… really?”

I thought about it.

“I’m okay. Some days are harder than others. I still wake up sometimes and forget for a moment that both Catherine and Marcus are gone. Different kinds of gone, but gone. Then I remember, and it hurts. Of course it does. But I’m okay. I’m rebuilding. I’ve reconnected with old friends. Tom from Seattle visits every month. I joined a woodworking group. Started volunteering at a literacy program. Life goes on.”

“What about the money? Did you recover any of it?”

“About 70,000. More than Sarah thought we would. Less than we lost. But I still have my pension and the house. I’ll be fine.”

Jennifer smiled.

“You’re stronger than you think.”

“I didn’t feel strong when I was sitting in your office finding out my son had robbed me blind.”

“But you did something about it. A lot of people… they’re so ashamed or so hurt that they just let it go. They don’t fight back. You fought back.”

“I had help. You. Sarah. Detective Morrison. Tom.”

“I couldn’t have done it alone.”

“Nobody does anything alone, Mr. Patterson. That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.”

We finished dinner and as I drove home I thought about what she’d said. Nobody does anything alone. Catherine and I had Marcus alone. Raised him alone. Maybe that was part of the problem. Too insular. Too focused on just our little family unit. When Catherine died, I was alone. And Marcus exploited that isolation.

I’m not alone anymore. I have friends now. Real friends. People who check in on me not to see what they can take, but because they genuinely care. Tom. Jennifer. Even Sarah, who I still have coffee with once a month.

I have my woodworking group where I’m teaching younger guys the craft. I have the literacy program where I help immigrants learn to read English. I have a life that’s full again. Different from before. Smaller in some ways. But mine.