My Daughter Sent Me On A Vacation To Florida To Help Me Grieve My Late Wife. While I Was Away, She Used A Fake Power Of Attorney To Steal $300,000 And Put My House On The Market. I Just Drove 26 Hours Straight Back To Denver And Let Myself Into My Own Home. You Won’t Believe Who I Found Waiting In My Living Room.
The Surprise Return
When my daughter opened the front door of my Denver home that Tuesday afternoon, the last thing she expected to see was me sitting in my father’s old leather chair, holding a stack of bank statements. Her face went white. The real estate contract she was carrying slipped from her hands and scattered across the hardwood floor.
Behind her, her boyfriend Troy froze on the threshold, his eyes darting toward the door like he was calculating an escape route.
“Dad,” Melissa whispered, her voice barely audible. “You’re… you’re supposed to be in Florida.”
“I was,” I said calmly, not moving from the chair. “But funny thing happened. I got a very interesting phone call from the county recorder’s office. Something about a property transfer I never authorized. I think we need to talk about the house you tried to sell, the money you took, and everything else.”
That’s when she started crying. But let me back up and tell you how I got here, sitting in my own living room watching my only daughter realize her plan had completely fallen apart.
A Life Built in Denver
My name is Robert Hansen. I’m 63 years old and I spent 35 years working as a structural engineer before I retired 2 years ago. The house I’m sitting in isn’t just any house. It’s the three-bedroom Craftsman bungalow my parents bought in 1968 in the Highlands neighborhood of Denver.
When they passed away within six months of each other five years ago, they left it to me. Back then it was worth maybe $400,000. Now, with Denver’s real estate boom, properties on my street sell for $850,000 or more.
My wife Linda died 3 years ago. Ovarian cancer, just like in those medical dramas where they catch it too late. She fought for 2 years, but the cancer was relentless. After she was gone, the house felt enormous and empty. I’d wake up reaching for her side of the bed, forgetting for just a moment that I was alone now.
Melissa stepped up during that time. She lived in Aurora with Troy, about 40 minutes away, and she started visiting every weekend. She’d bring groceries, help me organize Linda’s things, and sit with me while we went through photo albums. I was grateful. After Linda died, Melissa was all the family I had left.
“Dad, this house is too much for you,” she’d say, looking around at the rooms that needed updating, the yard that needed constant maintenance. “You’re rattling around in here all by yourself.”
“I’m doing fine,” I’d tell her.
And I was. Sure, I was lonely, but I’d built a life in this neighborhood over 30 years. I had my Monday morning coffee group at the diner on 32nd Avenue. I volunteered with Habitat for Humanity on Thursdays. I played chess at the library with three other retirees every Saturday. This house, this neighborhood, it was all I had left of the life Linda and I built together.
But Melissa kept pushing.
“What if you fall and no one finds you? What if the furnace breaks in winter? You’re being stubborn, Dad.”
Maybe I was, but this was my home. Filled with memories of Linda painting the kitchen cabinets that pale yellow she loved, of Melissa learning to ride her bike on this very sidewalk, of birthday parties and Thanksgiving dinners and ordinary Tuesday nights watching TV together.
The Florida Opportunity
Everything changed last September. Melissa called me on a Thursday evening, her voice bright with excitement.
“Dad, I have the most amazing opportunity for you.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?”
“My friend Cheryl’s parents have this gorgeous condo in Sarasota, right on the beach. They’re snowbirds and they need someone to house-sit from October through March. 6 months in Florida, Dad. Think about it. Warm weather, the beach, no snow to shovel. You could finally relax.”
I laughed. “6 months? Melissa, I can’t just leave for half a year.”
“Why not? You’re retired. You have no obligations. And honestly, Dad, you’ve been so isolated since mom died. This would be good for you. You could make new friends, join activities, live a little. Mom would want you to.”
That stung because it was true. Linda had always talked about spending winters somewhere warm once we retired. We’d collect travel brochures, dream about places we’d go. Then she got sick and those dreams evaporated.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “That’s a long time to be away from home, which is actually something we should talk about.”
Melissa’s tone shifted, becoming more business-like. “If you’re going to be gone that long, we should set up some safeguards. Just practical stuff.”
The next weekend she showed up with paperwork.
“This is a financial power of attorney,” she explained, spreading the documents on my kitchen table. “It just gives me the ability to handle things for you while you’re in Florida. Pay your bills, make repairs if something breaks, deal with any financial matters that come up. It’s totally standard.”
I hesitated. Something in my gut told me to slow down.
“Dad, I’m a licensed real estate agent. I deal with this stuff every day. What if there’s a plumbing emergency? What if the city sends some notice that needs immediate attention? You’ll be 1,800 miles away. This just gives me the legal authority to handle things for you.”
She was right. It made sense. And this was Melissa, my daughter. The little girl who used to bring me dandelions and call them flowers. Why would she ever hurt me? I signed the papers in front of a notary at her brokerage office.
Melissa hugged me tight afterward. “You’re going to love Sarasota, Dad. This is exactly what you need.”
The Call That Changed Everything
The first two months in Florida were everything Melissa promised. The condo was beautiful, right on Leo Beach. I’d wake up to the sound of waves, spend my mornings walking the shore, my afternoons reading on the balcony.
I made friends with other retirees at the condo complex. There was Harold from Michigan, who’d lost his wife around the same time I lost Linda. We’d sit by the pool in the evenings drinking beer and talking about everything we’d lost and everything we were trying to find again.
I called Melissa every Sunday. She always sounded cheerful, asking about the beach, the weather, the new friends I’d made.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself, Dad. You deserve this.”
It was a Tuesday morning in late November when everything shattered. I was getting ready to go kayaking with Harold when my phone rang. Unknown number, Colorado area code.
“Mr. Hansen, this is Jennifer Martinez from the Denver County Recorder Office. I’m calling about the deed transfer on your property at 2,847 Knox Court.”
My stomach dropped. “What deed transfer?”
There was a pause.
“According to our records, ownership of the property was transferred on November 18th to KBT Holdings LLC. The transfer was executed by Melissa Hansen using a power of attorney on file.”
The balcony seemed to tilt beneath my feet. “She did what?”
“The deed was recorded 6 days ago. I’m calling because we received a request for title insurance and during our review we noticed the property owner’s signature was dated while you were listed as out of state. We like to verify these transfers when there are any irregularities.”
