I Came Home From A 6-month Trip To Find A Stranger In My Kitchen Wearing My Clothes. He Claims He’s Family, But My Granddaughter Is Crying In The Basement. What Should I Do?
Tiffany said, examining her nails.
“Changed his number. Didn’t want Emma bothering him.”
Every motherly instinct I had was screaming that something was wrong, terribly wrong.
“I need to see Emma,”
I said firmly.
“Right now.”
Rick sighed like I was being unreasonable.
“She’s probably in the basement. That’s where she spends most of her time. Studying, I guess.”
The basement? I headed toward the kitchen where the basement door was located.
The kitchen looked like a disaster: dishes piled in the sink, empty pizza boxes stacked on the counter, and beer bottles lined up on the windowsill. This wasn’t David’s home; this was a frat house.
I opened the basement door.
“Emma, sweetheart, it’s Grandma.”
Silence, then quietly:
“Grandma?”
I flicked on the light and descended the stairs. The basement had always been David’s man cave—a big TV, a comfortable couch, and his collection of vintage records.
Now it looked like a storage unit. Boxes were everywhere, and clothes were hanging from makeshift lines strung across the ceiling.
Emma was curled up on an air mattress in the corner, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants with dark circles under her eyes. My beautiful granddaughter, who’d been a straight-A student and star of the volleyball team, looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Oh, baby,”
I breathed, rushing to her. She stood up, and I saw she was shaking.
“Grandma, you’re back! You’re really back!”
I pulled her into my arms. She felt thinner than I remembered.
“What happened? Where’s your father?”
Emma started crying—not the gentle tears of reunion, but deep, gulping sobs that shook her whole body.
“He’s gone. Dad’s gone. And Uncle Rick said—he said you weren’t coming back either, that you decided to stay in Europe permanently.”
“What? No! I’ve been emailing your father the whole time, planning to come home.”
“I never saw any emails,”
Emma whispered.
“Uncle Rick said Dad left because he couldn’t handle being a single parent anymore. Said he met someone new and just drove away. That was four months ago, right after Uncle Rick showed up.”
Something in the way she said it made me pull back to look at her face.
“Emma, tell me the truth. Did you actually see your father leave?”
She hesitated.
“I saw him put suitcases in his car. He was crying. He hugged me and said he was sorry, that he had to go, that Uncle Rick would take care of things until you got back.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No, he just kept saying he was sorry.”
She grabbed my hand.
“Grandma, I tried to text you, but Uncle Rick said international texting was too expensive and I couldn’t use the phone plan anymore. He said he’d email you updates for me.”
Rick had been filtering everything—every communication. He’d responded to my emails pretending to be David.
He told Emma I wasn’t coming back, and David—
“Have you heard from your father at all since he left?”
Emma shook her head.
“Nothing. It’s like he disappeared.”
A House Full of Trespassers
I looked around the basement again, really looked. Emma’s clothes were folded neatly in a cardboard box, her school backpack sat beside the air mattress, and a plate with half-eaten toast sat beside a warm glass of water.
“Have you been sleeping down here?”
“Uncle Rick and Aunt Tiffany are in Dad’s room. They said the other bedrooms are being used by Uncle Rick’s friends. There’s nowhere else.”
The other bedrooms? My sewing room? The guest room?
“What friends?”
“There are three other people living here. They come and go. Uncle Rick said they’re helping with expenses.”
I climbed the stairs, Emma following close behind me. Rick and Tiffany were in the living room now.
Rick was sprawled on my late husband’s recliner, and Tiffany was filing her nails on the couch.
“Emma tells me you have other people living here,”
I said.
“Yeah, so?”
Rick cracked open another beer.
“House is huge. Your son left it in my care. I’m managing it.”
“Managing it? This is my house! I own this house!”
Rick smiled—not a nice smile.
“Actually, about that. David signed over power of attorney to me before he left. Said since you were gone and he was leaving, someone needed to handle your affairs. All legal. I’ve got the paperwork upstairs.”
My blood went cold. David would never do that.
“Well, he did. Got it notarized and everything. So technically, I’m in charge of this property until you pass away or become incapacitated, which, given your age—”
He let that hang in the air. I was 72 years old and had just spent six months walking all over Europe.
I’d climbed to the top of Notre Dame and hiked in the Alps. I was in better shape than this beer-swilling parasite.
“I want to see that paperwork.”
Rick shrugged.
“Sure, it’s in the office—your old sewing room. Except that’s where Jake is staying now, and he’s asleep. Works night shift, can’t disturb him.”
Every word out of his mouth was designed to obstruct, to delay. This was a con; I’d lived long enough to recognize one.
I pulled out my phone and dialed. Emma looked at me, hopeful.
“What are you doing?”
Tiffany asked.
“Calling the police.”
Rick sat up straighter.
“On what grounds? I told you, I have legal authority here. You call the cops, you’re just going to embarrass yourself.”
“Then you won’t mind when they verify your paperwork.”
His jaw tightened.
“Look, Evelyn, let’s be reasonable. You’re old, you’re tired, you just got off a long flight. Why don’t you go to a hotel for the night, get some rest, and we’ll sort this all out tomorrow?”
“I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.”
The Authorities Arrive
The 911 dispatcher answered.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Evelyn Martinez. I’ve just returned home from a trip to find strangers occupying my house and my granddaughter sleeping in the basement. I need police assistance to verify some legal documents and potentially remove trespassers.”
The dispatcher asked for my address, which I provided. Rick’s face had gone red.
“You’re making a big mistake, old lady,”
he hissed.
“The only mistake I made was leaving without ensuring my family was truly safe,”
I replied. The police arrived 20 minutes later—two officers, a young woman and an older man who reminded me of my late husband.
I showed them my ID, my deed to the house, and my mortgage statements—everything proving this was my property. Rick produced his power of attorney document.
