I Came Home To Find My Son-in-law’s Whole Family Living In My House. My Daughter Was Missing And They Treated Me Like An Intruder. Should I Give Them More Than 24 Hours To Evict?

Fighting Back

I took Rebecca to a hotel near the highway, checked us into a double room, and ordered room service because I’d be damned if my daughter was going to cook anything today.

While she showered, I called Daniel and told him everything. Then I called my lawyer, Jerry Stevenson. Had handled Tom’s will and our estate planning for 20 years. When I told him what had happened, there was a long silence on the other end of the line,.

“Margaret,” he finally said, “what they’ve done to her is illegal on about 15 different levels. The forged mortgage alone is bank fraud. We can fix this, but it’s going to get ugly.”

“Good,” I said. “I want it to get ugly.”

The next morning, I woke up before dawn. Rebecca was still sleeping, curled up under the covers like she used to do as a child. I left her a note saying I’d be back by 9:00, and I drove to the bank as soon as it opened.

The safe deposit box contained everything I needed: the original deed in mine and Tom’s names, the trust documents establishing that Rebecca was the beneficiary but the house itself remained in trust ownership until my death, title insurance records, property tax receipts going back 15 years, all paid by me from my account.

I made copies of everything at the bank’s business center. Then I called Jerry again.

“I’m going to the house,” I told him. “I’m serving them all with eviction notices. Can you have those drawn up by this afternoon?”,

“Margaret, you need to be careful. If this Mark is as unstable as you say…”

“I’m 63 years old, Jerry. I’ve survived raising teenagers, a husband’s cancer, and my mother-in-law. I can handle Mark. At least take the police with you for the eviction.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

I drove to the police station next, explained the situation to the desk sergeant, showed him the documents, and told him I needed an officer to accompany me while I served eviction notices to squatters in my property.

He was skeptical at first, but the paperwork was undeniable. He sent Officer Morrison, a woman about Rebecca’s age with kind eyes and no-nonsense posture.

“Just so I’m clear,” she said as we drove back to the house, “you own this property outright. These people have no legal right to be there, and your daughter has been living there under duress.”

“That’s correct.”

“And the husband forged documents to take out a mortgage on a house he doesn’t own?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “This is going to be a mess. But ma’am, I’m glad you came home.”

The Eviction

We pulled up to the house at 10:00 a.m. Officer Morrison’s patrol car in the driveway sent a clear message. Diane’s face appeared in the window, then vanished.

Mark came to the door before I could knock. He was trying to look confident, but I could see the fear in his eyes when he spotted the police officer.

“Can I help you?” His voice was tight.

“I’m here to inform you that you and your entire family have 24 hours to vacate this property,” I said calmly. “This house is owned by me, held in a family trust. You have no legal claim to it. Officer Morrison is here to witness that I’ve delivered this notice and to ensure that this process goes smoothly.”

“You can’t do this!” Mark sputtered. “Rebecca signed…”

“Rebecca signed nothing. She had no authority to sign anything. The house was never hers to give you.” I handed him the eviction notice Jerry had emailed me to print at the hotel. “You have until 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. Take your family and leave.”

“Where are we supposed to go?” Diane had appeared behind Mark, her children clinging to her,.

I felt a moment of sympathy for the children, but only a moment.

“That’s not my concern. You came here without my permission. You exploited my daughter. You leave by tomorrow or I’ll have the sheriff remove you.”

“The mortgage…” Mark started.

“Is fraudulent. I never authorized it, and the house was never in your name to borrow against. I’ll be reporting it to the bank and to the police fraud division this afternoon. If you took out that mortgage, Mark, I suggest you get a good lawyer.”

His face went white. Officer Morrison stepped forward.

“Mr. Torres, I strongly suggest you cooperate. What Miss Margaret is describing constitutes fraud, forgery, and possibly elder abuse by exploitation. You really don’t want to make this worse.”

“Elder abuse? Rebecca’s mother isn’t elderly!”

“Her daughter is the victim, and you used her mother’s property without permission. Trust me, you don’t want to test this.” Officer Morrison’s hand rested casually on her belt near her radio. “24 hours. Cooperate or things get much more complicated for you.”,

We left them standing in the doorway as we walked back to our cars. Officer Morrison turned to me.

“That took guts. Most people would have just called us and stayed away.”

“That’s my daughter’s home. My home. I’m not staying away anymore.”

Reclaiming the Home

I picked Rebecca up from the hotel at noon. She was terrified to go back, but I insisted.

“You need to see this, baby. You need to see that they have no power over you anymore.”

When we pulled up, the moving had already started. A U-Haul truck sat in the driveway. Mark’s father was loading boxes, his face red with exertion and anger. Diane was herding her children into a minivan, shooting daggers at us with her eyes.

Rebecca gripped my hand as we walked up the front path.

“They’re really leaving. They’re really leaving.”

Mark appeared in the doorway, a box in his arms. When he saw Rebecca, his expression shifted, trying to soften.

“Becca, baby. You don’t have to do this. We can work this out. It’s your mother who’s being unreasonable.”,

“Her name is Rebecca,” I said coldly. “And you’re done talking to her. Finish packing and get out.”

“Rebecca,” he tried again, ignoring me. “We’re married. This is between us. Don’t let your mother…”

“I want a divorce,” Rebecca said. Her voice was quiet but steady.

“I’m filing next week.”

The box slipped from Mark’s hands and hit the porch with a crash.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious.” She squeezed my hand tighter. “And I’m getting a restraining order. So you need to stay away from me.”

“You can’t do this! After everything I’ve done for you! I gave you a home when your mother abandoned you!” Now the mask was completely off, the rage visible.

“You gave her nothing,” I said. “And she’s done. We’re done. You have 19 hours left. I suggest you use them.”

We walked into the house, leaving him standing there. The place was chaos, boxes everywhere, furniture being moved, Mark’s family scrambling. But underneath the chaos, I could already see our home starting to reappear.

Rebecca’s hand in mine was still shaking, but she was standing taller,.

Over the next three weeks, we reclaimed everything. Jerry filed a fraud report with the bank about the forged mortgage. Turned out Mark had a history of this—two credit cards in his sister’s name, a car loan using his father’s information. The district attorney was very interested.

Rebecca filed for divorce and a restraining order. Both granted immediately when she showed the judge photos of the laundry room where she’d been sleeping, the timeline of financial abuse, the forged documents.

The house slowly became ours again. We cleaned out every room, repainted Rebecca’s old bedroom, replaced the stained carpets.

Rebecca quit the diner and started applying for library positions again. With a proper reference from her former supervisor, who was horrified to learn about the fraudulent resignation call, and my support, she landed an interview at the university library in New Haven. She got the job. Started three weeks later.