I Was Stuck Abroad For 18 Years And Sent My Best Friend Millions To Raise My Son. I Just Returned To Find My Son Working As His Gardener. How Do I Destroy Him?

She studied me for a long moment, and I saw the calculation happening. She needed something. Maybe she needed to change the locks.

Maybe she needed someone who didn’t report to Richard. Maybe she just needed someone who looked desperate enough to keep their mouth shut. “The pool house needs some work,” She finally said.

“Minor repairs. I’ll pay you cash, 200 a day, but Richard can’t know. He’s particular about contractors.” “I understand particular, ma’am. When would you like me to start?” “Monday, 6:00 a.m. Use the service entrance.”

She started to close the door then stopped. “You seem familiar. Have we met?” My heart stopped, then I smiled the kind of smile beaten men give rich women. “I’ve got one of those faces, ma’am. Generic.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and closed the door. I walked back to the encampment with my hands shaking. I was in.

I had access. I had a reason to be on the property without raising alarms. And I had leverage on Melissa, though I hadn’t used it yet.

The affair was insurance, a card I’d play only if I needed it. Cheni called that night. “I found something else. Richard filed for guardianship of David in 2004, claiming he was mentally unstable due to grief. It was approved when David was 18. He’s 34 now, Marcus. Richard has been his legal guardian for 16 years.”

“That’s how he’s controlled everything. Can guardianship last that long?” “Not for a mentally competent adult, no. But if no one challenges it, if no one knows to challenge it, it just sits there in the paperwork. David probably doesn’t even know. Richard would have told him it was necessary for insurance, for the estate management, for his own protection.”

“How do we break it?” “You show up. You prove you’re alive. You file a challenge. The whole house of cards collapses.”

“Not yet,” I said. “I need to know everything first. If I reveal myself now, Richard lawyers up and we get into a legal war I can’t afford. I need evidence that’s so clean, so devastating, that he can’t fight back.”

Me and Daddy

Monday morning, I showed up at the service entrance at 5:55 a.m. The gate was already open. I walked through, feeling the weight of 18 years with every step.

The pool house was exactly as I designed it: 800 square feet, one-bedroom, kitchenette, bathroom. It was supposed to be charming; instead, it looked tired. The paint was peeling. The door didn’t quite close right.

Inside, I found the evidence of my son’s life reduced to the essentials: a mattress on the floor, milk crates for furniture, a hot plate, a mini fridge. No TV, no computer. A single photo on the wall: Sarah, my wife, holding a baby David.

It was the only decoration. In the corner, there was a child’s drawing taped to the wall—a stick figure girl holding hands with a stick figure man. The caption in careful, six-year-old handwriting: “Me and Daddy.”

I stood there staring at that drawing until I heard footsteps outside. I had 30 seconds to become a handyman instead of a father. David appeared in the doorway, startled.

“Who are you?” “Marcus. Mrs. Sterling hired me to do some repairs. She said you’d be around.” He relaxed slightly but didn’t smile.

“She didn’t mention it.” “Last minute thing, I think. She seems stressed.” Something flickered across his face—understanding, maybe, or resignation.

“Yeah. She’s… it’s been a tough week for them.” He set down a toolbox. “What needs fixing?”

“She mentioned the door frame, some drywall. I’ll stay out of your way.” “This is where I live,” He said, and there was no pride in it, just a statement of fact. “So you’ll be in my way no matter what. Just try to finish fast.”

He grabbed a work shirt from a hook and left. I stood in my son’s home, breathing air he’d breathed, looking at a life that should have been so different. Over the next two weeks, I worked on the pool house and watched.

I learned that David started every day at 6:00 a.m., worked until 7:00 p.m., and ate dinner alone in the pool house. I learned that his daughter, my granddaughter, visited every Saturday morning, dropped off by his ex-wife at 9:00 and picked up at 4:00. Her name was Emma. She was 6 years old and had Sarah’s smile.

I learned that Richard treated my son like an employee, not a family member. Not even a valued employee—more like a servant who should be grateful for the opportunity to serve. I watched Richard criticize David’s work, demand changes, and threaten to reduce his hours if standards weren’t met.

Hours. Like my son was being paid when he wasn’t. Like this was a job instead of indentured servitude in his own house.

I learned that David never went into the main house, never ate at their table, never used their phone or their internet. He existed in a bubble of isolation, permitted to maintain the exterior but never inhabit the interior. And I learned that he didn’t know I was alive.

Reciting a Hollow Script

On Thursday of the second week, I finally spoke to him beyond logistics about repairs. He was replacing sprinkler heads near the pool house, and I brought him a bottle of water. “Thanks,” He said, surprised. “Hot day.”

He drank half the bottle in one go then sat back on his heels. “Can I ask you something?” “Sure.”

“You ever worked for rich people before?” “Once or twice. They’re different, right? Like they’re not even the same species as us.” I sat down on the grass next to him.

“Some are. Some just have money. Doesn’t make them different inside.” He shook his head. “Richard Sterling is different. He’s got this way of making you feel like you should be grateful he lets you breathe his air.”

He stopped, looking uncomfortable. “Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear me complain about the guy paying your bills.” “Mrs. Sterling is paying me, and I’ve met enough Richards in my life. I know the type.”

“He’s not that bad, I guess. I mean, he took me in when my dad died. Raised me when he didn’t have to. I owe him everything.” He said it like a prayer, like something he’d been told so many times it had become truth. “Your dad died?”

“Yeah. Car accident in Singapore. I was 18. Richard said I wasn’t handling it well, so he became my guardian. Helped me through it.” The words were right, but the delivery was hollow, like he was reciting someone else’s script. “You remember your dad?”

“Not much. He left when I was 16. Mom was sick. He took her to Singapore for treatment and I never saw either of them again. Mom died 2 years later. Dad died the same year. Richard said Dad was sending money back but I never saw it. Richard said Dad was too ashamed to call after Mom died. Too guilty. Then he was just gone.”

Every word was a knife. I kept my face neutral, kept my voice level. “Must have been hard.”

“It was what it was.” He stood up, brushed dirt from his jeans. “I should get back to work. Thanks for the water.”