My Daughter Left Me Stranded At The Hospital After Surgery. I Came Home To New Locks And A Drained Bank Account. How Do I Recover From This Betrayal?
Understanding the Fraud
I’d been a nurse for 37 years before retiring. I’d worked in oncology where I’d seen families at their worst and their best. I’d watched adult children fight over dying parents’ DNR orders, seen siblings clash over inheritance while their father was still breathing.
I’d learned to recognize the signs of elder abuse, the subtle ways families could exploit vulnerable seniors. I’d never imagined I’d be on the receiving end.
The hospital’s social worker, Maria Rodriguez, joined us. She was maybe 40, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor I immediately appreciated. She reviewed the documents with me.
“This power of attorney is broad,”
Maria said.
“It covers medical decisions, financial transactions, property management. And look at the date. It’s dated 2 weeks before your surgery. Did you sign this then?”
I looked at the signature. It was mine, no question, but I had no memory of signing it.
“She came over one evening, said she needed me to sign some paperwork for her apartment lease. I was watching TV. I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses. She put several pages in front of me, pointed to the signature lines.”
My voice cracked.
“I didn’t read them. I trusted her.”
Maria squeezed my hand.
“Mrs. Patterson… Linda, this happens more often than you’d think. Adult children exploiting elderly parents through power of attorney fraud. But here’s what you need to know. You have options. You can revoke a power of attorney. You can report this to adult protective services. You can press charges.”
“But she’s my daughter.”
“Yes, and she committed fraud and theft. Those are crimes regardless of relation.”
Over the next hour, Maria helped me piece together what I could do. First, I needed to get home. The hospital provided a taxi voucher.
Locked Out
When I arrived at my house, the modest two-bedroom I’d lived in for 30 years, I found the locks changed. I stood on my own porch, key in hand, unable to get inside my own home.
My neighbor Mrs. Chen—no relation to the hospital administrator—saw me from her garden.
“Linda! Oh thank goodness, I was so worried. Your daughter was here yesterday with a locksmith. She said you were in the hospital and they needed to change the locks for security. She said she’d explain it to you.”
“Did she say anything else?”
Mrs. Chen hesitated.
“She was loading things into a U-Haul. I asked if you were moving and she said you’d decided to downsize. She took quite a bit of furniture, boxes of your belongings. I offered to help but she said she had it handled.”
I felt my knees weaken. Mrs. Chen caught my arm.
“Come inside. Let me call the police.”
The officer who responded was young, maybe 30. Officer Martinez listened to my story with increasing concern. He tried the doors, walked around the house checking windows.
Finally, he called for backup and a sergeant. Sergeant Williams was older, probably near my age, with gray at his temples and a weathered face that suggested he’d seen it all. He took my statement carefully.
“Mrs. Patterson, here’s the situation. Your daughter has power of attorney which gives her legal authority over your property. From a law enforcement perspective, she didn’t break in. She had legal access. The lock change, the removal of property… Technically she’s within her rights if that document holds up.”
“But I didn’t know what I was signing. She tricked me.”
“I believe you, but proving that in court will take time. Meanwhile, you need somewhere to stay tonight. Do you have family? Jessica was my only family. Friends? Anyone who can take you in while we sort this out?”
Mrs. Chen spoke up.
“She’ll stay with me. And Sergeant, with all due respect, an elderly woman just had major surgery and her daughter has locked her out of her own home and stolen money. That can’t be legal.”
“You’re right to be upset,”
Sergeant Williams said.
“Here’s what I recommend. Tomorrow, Linda, you need to contact an attorney immediately. File to revoke the power of attorney. File a police report for fraud and theft. Contact your bank and credit card companies to freeze your accounts. And document everything—every item you remember your daughter taking, every dollar unaccounted for.”
Building a Case
I spent that night in Mrs. Chen’s guest room unable to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Jessica’s face.
Not the woman who’d left me stranded at the hospital, but the little girl who’d held my hand on her first day of kindergarten. The teenager who’d stayed up late helping me study for my nursing recertification exams.
The young woman who’d sobbed in my arms when her father died. When had she changed? Or had she always been capable of this and I’d been too blind to see?
The next morning Mrs. Chen drove me to legal aid. The attorney who met with me was a woman named Patricia Okafor, probably in her 50s, with an air of competent efficiency that immediately put me at ease.
“Mrs. Patterson, I’ve handled dozens of cases like yours. Elder financial exploitation is unfortunately a growing problem. Let’s start with what we know.”
She pulled out a legal pad.
“You signed a power of attorney under false pretenses. Your daughter has used that to access an insurance settlement, take control of your property, and lock you out of your home. We need to move quickly.”
Over the next 2 hours we built a strategy. Patricia filed an emergency motion to revoke the power of attorney. She contacted adult protective services. She helped me file police reports for fraud, theft, and elder abuse.
And she gave me a reality check.
“Linda, you need to prepare yourself. If we pursue this, there’s no going back. Your daughter will likely face criminal charges. Your relationship, whatever’s left of it, will be destroyed. Are you prepared for that?”
I thought about Jessica’s message: “Something came up.” As if stealing from your mother and leaving her homeless was a minor inconvenience.
As if 37 years of me raising her alone, working double shifts to pay for her college, supporting her through two failed marriages—as if none of that mattered.
“Yes,”
I said.
“I’m prepared.”
The next week was a blur of legal proceedings and police investigations. I stayed with Mrs. Chen, who proved to be a fierce advocate.
She helped me contact the bank where I discovered Jessica had transferred $92,000 from my savings account—my entire retirement nest egg—to an account I didn’t recognize.
The credit card companies reported fraudulent charges: plane tickets to Costa Rica, a real estate transaction, luxury purchases. Jessica had been planning this for months.
The turning point came when Patricia’s investigator traced the property deed. Jessica had forged my signature on a quitclaim deed transferring my house to her name.
She’d then taken out a home equity loan against it for $60,000. My house, which I’d owned free and clear for 15 years, now had a massive loan against it. And Jessica had the money.
“This is good news,”
Patricia said.
“How is any of this good news?”
“Because it’s so egregious, so clearly fraudulent that we have a strong case. The power of attorney gave her authority to manage your affairs, not to steal from you. This crosses every legal line. The district attorney is interested in prosecuting.”
