I Woke Up From Heart Surgery To Find My Twin Sons Sold My $850,000 Home And Dumped Me In A Nursing Home. They Thought They’d Won, Until A Lonely Millionaire Offered Me A Room In His Mansion. Now My Sons Are Furious, And They’ve Just Shown Up At The Front Gate With A Lawyer.
The Betrayal at Swedish Medical Center
I never thought I’d wake up from heart surgery to find out my twin sons had sold my house, but there I was.
Three days post-op in Swedish Medical Center in Seattle, still connected to monitors and drainage tubes, my neighbor Martha called my cell phone.
“Bob, I’m so sorry,”
she said, her voice shaking.
“I tried calling your sons, but they won’t answer. There’s a sold sign in your yard. The new owners just showed up with a moving truck.”
My chest hurt, and not just from the incision.
“Martha, that’s impossible. I didn’t sell the house.”
“I know, honey, but they have paperwork. Legal documents. I asked to see them because I thought it was a scam. The sale was finalized yesterday. I’m looking at your sons right now. They’re directing the movers.”
The room started spinning.
I’d given Derek and Nathan power of attorney before the surgery just in case something went wrong.
It was supposed to be for medical decisions, emergency situations—not this.
“Can you put Derek on the phone?”
There was shuffling, then my son’s voice.
Not apologetic, not even uncomfortable, just matter-of-fact, like he was discussing the weather.,
“Dad, you’re awake. Good. Look, we need to talk about your living situation.”
“My living situation? Derek, Martha says you sold my house.”
“We made a sound financial decision. That house was worth $850,000, Dad. You don’t need all that space. The property taxes alone were killing you. We got you a spot at Evergreen Senior Living. It’s nice. Three meals a day, activities, nurses on staff.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“The deposit was $4,500. First month is $3,200. We put the rest in an investment account under our names so you can’t make any more poor financial choices. You’ll get your allowance monthly.”
“My allowance?”
At 68 years old, after working 42 years as a CPA, after raising these boys alone when their mother left, I was getting an allowance.
“You had no right.”
“We had power of attorney. It’s legal. Look, Dad, Nathan and I talked about this. You’re not getting any younger. What if something happens to you? What if you fall down those stairs? We’re protecting you.”,
“Protecting your inheritance, you mean.”
“Don’t be dramatic. The nursing home expects you Monday. That gives you three days to rest up from surgery. They have a room ready.”
He paused.
“Oh, and we cleaned out the house. Donated most of your stuff. Couldn’t fit much in the new room anyway. Martha has two suitcases for you.”
The line went dead.
He’d hung up on me.
My own son, who I’d paid for to go to Washington State University, who I’d helped buy his first car, whose wedding I’d financed, had just stolen my house and hung up on me.
A Nurse’s Kindness
I lay there staring at the white ceiling tiles, trying to process what had just happened.
The heart monitor beeped steadily beside me, oblivious to the fact that my heart was breaking in a way no surgery could fix.
A nurse came in to check my vitals—a young woman, probably mid-20s, with kind eyes and purple scrubs covered in little cartoon hearts.
“Mr. Mitchell, how are you feeling? Pain level? Physically or emotionally?”
She looked up from the blood pressure cuff.
“Want to talk about it?”
And suddenly, inexplicably, I did.,
Maybe it was the medication.
Maybe it was because she was a stranger who wouldn’t judge me.
Maybe I just needed to say it out loud to believe it was real.
“My sons just sold my house while I was unconscious on an operating table.”
Her hand froze on the IV line.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Three days ago, I was living in the house I bought 30 years ago in Ballard. Now I’m homeless. They put me in a nursing home. Used the power of attorney I gave them for medical emergencies to liquidate my life.”
She was quiet for a moment, then sat down in the chair next to my bed—not something nurses usually do.
They’re too busy, too many patients.
“Mr. Mitchell, I’m not supposed to get involved in family stuff, but do you have a lawyer?”
“I gave the contact information to my sons for safekeeping.”
I laughed, and it hurt my chest.
“Guess that was stupid.”
“Do you want me to call someone? A social worker? And tell them what? My sons used legal means to steal from me. I signed the papers. I gave them the authority. I trusted them.”
She squeezed my hand.
“I’ll ask Dr. Chen about extending your stay. Buy you some time to figure things out.”
