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.
Uncovering the Scheme
I spent the next 3 hours on the phone: first with Jennifer, then with a real estate attorney in Denver, then with my bank. The picture that emerged made me physically ill.
Melissa had used the power of attorney to transfer ownership of my house to an LLC. Then she’d immediately put the property under contract for $680,000, which was $170,000 below market value. The sale was scheduled to close on December 15th, less than 3 weeks away.
But that wasn’t all. She’d also opened a home equity line of credit for $300,000 against the property before transferring it. That money was gone, transferred to an account in her name.
“She can’t do that,” I told the attorney, a sharp woman named Patricia Reeves. “She can’t sell my house without my permission.”
“Mr. Hansen, with the power of attorney you signed, she technically can,” Patricia said. “If she can argue it’s in your best interest, especially if she can demonstrate you’re unable to manage the property or that you’ve abandoned it, a court might uphold the transfer.”
“I’m 63 years old and healthy. I’m house-sitting in Florida, not abandoning my home.”
“I understand, but she’s a real estate professional. She can argue that liquidating the asset makes financial sense, that maintaining a large property is too much for you, that she’s acting in your fiduciary interest. We need to move fast.”
I checked my bank accounts on my phone. My checking account was nearly empty. The savings account I’d built up from the sale of Linda’s life insurance policy was gone. Even my investment account, the one I’d been saving for emergencies, had been drained.
Everything except my pension deposits had been transferred out. I had $12,000 in checking and $800 in my wallet. That was all that was left of a lifetime of savings.
“How do I stop this?” I asked Patricia.
“You need to revoke the power of attorney immediately, file for an emergency injunction to stop the sale, and get back to Denver.”
“But Mr. Hansen, you’re in Florida. That closing is in 18 days. Can you get back here in time to fight this?”
I looked at the calendar. I wasn’t supposed to leave Sarasota until March. But I wasn’t waiting another 4 months while my daughter sold my life out from under me.
“I’ll be there in 3 days.”
The Long Drive Home
I told Harold what was happening. He sat there on the condo balcony, shaking his head.
“My nephew tried something similar. Not the house, but he convinced me to make him a co-signer on my accounts. Said he was helping me manage my money. Turned out he was siphoning off funds for his business. I caught it before he could clean me out, but barely.”
“What did you do?”
“I fought back. Got a lawyer, got my money back, cut him out of my will.” Harold looked at me hard. “The question is, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get my house back.”
“Then you better start moving.”
I packed my bag, left a note for Cheryl’s parents explaining the emergency, and drove my 2015 Honda Civic straight through to Denver. 26 hours with stops only for gas and bathroom breaks. I lived on gas station coffee and protein bars.
I pulled into Denver at 4:00 a.m. on a Friday morning. There was a lock box on my front door. A “Sale Pending” rider had been added to the For Sale sign in my yard. My lawn looked perfect. Someone had been maintaining it, probably to make sure the property showed well.
I tried my key. The locks had been changed.
I sat on my front porch in the pre-dawn darkness and put my head in my hands. I’d driven 1,800 miles, but I couldn’t even get into my own house.
That’s when my neighbor Ellen appeared, walking her dog. She was 71, a retired accountant who’d lived three doors down for 40 years.
“Robert, my god, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Florida.”
“Ellen, I need help.”
She took me inside her house, made me coffee, and listened to the whole story. When I finished, her face was tight with anger.
“That terrible girl. After everything you’ve done for her. Do you still have the spare key I keep for you?”
Ellen had been Linda’s best friend. When Linda got sick, Ellen had a key so she could come help when I was at work.
“I do, but Ellen, if the locks are changed…”
“I made copies,” she said quietly. “After Linda died, I was worried about you being alone. I made an extra set just in case. I have a key to your back door. The lock on that door is original.”
Preparing for Battle
At 6:00 a.m. I let myself into my own house through the back door. Everything looked the same, but wrong. Melissa had already started staging. Some of our furniture was gone.
There were boxes in the spare bedroom filled with Linda’s things that Melissa had packed up. Our wedding album, the quilt Linda’s mother made, the clock we got for our 25th anniversary—all of it boxed and ready to be hauled away or sold. I slept in my own bed that morning and cried for the first time since Linda’s funeral.
At 9:00 a.m. I called Patricia.
“I’m home. What do we do?”
“First, we file a revocation of the power of attorney. I’ll email you the form. Second, we file for an emergency injunction to stop the sale. The hearing is set for Monday. Can you be there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. But Robert, you need to understand something. Even if we stopped this sale, Melissa will argue she was acting in your best interest. She’s a real estate professional. She can say you’re unable to maintain the property, that you were transitioning to Florida permanently, that liquidating your assets is sound planning for someone your age. She has a good lawyer and this is going to be ugly.”
“How much will this cost me?”
“I’ll take it on contingency. If we win, we’ll recover attorney fees from Melissa. If we lose, we can’t lose.”
“Patricia, this is my home. It’s all I have left.”
The emergency hearing was scheduled for Monday, November 27th. I had 3 days to build my case.
I started by gathering evidence. I went to my bank with my ID and demanded copies of every transaction Melissa had made using the power of attorney. The home equity line of credit, the account transfers, the wire transfers to her account—all of it.
I interviewed neighbors. Ellen gave a statement that I’d never expressed any desire to sell. Greg from across the street, who played chess with me every week, swore I was of sound mind. Maria from the coffee group confirmed I was an active member of the community with no signs of declining health.
I documented everything about the Florida arrangement. The emails from Melissa pushing me to go. The house-sitting agreement that clearly showed it was temporary. The phone records showing I’d called Denver regularly, demonstrating I was still engaged with my life here.
Then I found something that changed everything.
On Sunday night I was going through the bank documents when I noticed something odd. The home equity line of credit application had been notarized on November 3rd, but I’d been in Florida since October 15th. The signature looked like mine, but I’d never signed anything.
I pulled out the power of attorney documents and compared signatures. They were similar but not identical. The loop on the “R” in Robert was different. The slant was slightly off. Melissa had forged my signature, and the notary had either been complicit or hadn’t actually witnessed any signature at all. Either way, it was fraud.
I called Patricia. “I’ve got her.”
