My Daughter Tried To Institutionalize Me To Steal My Life Savings. Little Does She Know, I Secretly Own The Mansion She Lives In. Who Is Getting Evicted Now?

Entering the Trap

The drive to Sarah’s house in Wellesley took 40 minutes. I drove my old truck, staying exactly at the speed limit. I watched the neighborhoods change from the working-class triple-deckers of my area to the sprawling manicured lawns of the wealthy suburbs. Sarah and Michael lived in a colonial-style McMansion that was worth at least $2.5 million. It had a three-car garage and a heated driveway. They drove leased luxury cars. They went on vacations to Europe. To the outside world, they were the picture of success. But I knew better. You do not try to lock up your father unless the wolves are at the door.

I pulled into the driveway. It was crowded. There was Michael’s Range Rover, Sarah’s Mercedes, and a black sedan I did not recognize. That must be the doctor, I thought. I took a deep breath. I patted my pocket to ensure the recorder was on. Then, I hunched my shoulders slightly. I relaxed my facial muscles to look a little slacker, a little less focused. I shuffled my feet as I walked to the door. If they wanted a senile old man, I would give them a performance that would make them confident. Arrogance causes mistakes, and I needed them to make mistakes.

Michael opened the door before I could ring the bell. He was wearing a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill. He had a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Joseph!”

He boomed, his voice too loud, as if he were talking to someone hard of hearing.

“You made it. We were starting to get worried. Did you get lost on the way?”

The gaslighting started immediately. I had driven to this house a hundred times. I had never been lost.

“No, Michael,”

I said, letting my voice quaver just a bit.

“The traffic was bad on the I-90. I got a little turned around at the exit, but I found it.”

Michael exchanged a quick glance with Sarah, who was standing in the hallway. It was a look of satisfaction. See, he is already admitting he is confused.

“Come in, Dad,”

Sarah said. She gave me a hug, but her body was rigid. She smelled of expensive perfume and wine.

“Put your coat here.”

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,”

I said, handing her the card with the check.

“Oh, Dad, you shouldn’t have,”

She said, taking it without looking at me. She placed it on the side table without opening it. A $500 gift from a pensioner, and she treated it like junk mail.

“Come into the living room,”

Michael guided me with a hand on my back, pushing me slightly.

“I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Dr. Aris.”

The man sitting on the white sofa stood up. He was in his 50s, wearing a sharp suit and wire-rimmed glasses. He had the cold, analytical eyes of a shark.

“Mr. Bennett,”

He said, extending a hand.

“Michael has told me so much about you.”

I shook his hand. His grip was firm, testing.

“Nice to meet you,”

I mumbled, looking slightly past his ear, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Please, sit,”

Dr. Aris said, patting the spot next to him.

“Michael tells me you used to be an engineer. That must have been fascinating work.”

“It was a long time ago,”

I said, sinking into the soft cushions. I tried to look small. I kept my hands on my knees and let a slight tremor shake my left hand.

“I built bridges.”

“Do you remember which ones?”

Dr. Aris asked. His tone was casual, but the pen in his hand was poised over a small notebook on the coffee table.

“I… I think I worked on the Zakim Bridge,”

I said slowly, furrowing my brow as if the memory was swimming through fog.

“But maybe that was the other one. It gets hard to keep them straight.”

In reality, I was the lead structural consultant for the Zakim Bridge. I knew the load-bearing capacity of every cable. I knew the sigh of the concrete. But I let the lie hang there.

“Of course,”

Dr. Aris said, making a quick mark in his notebook.

“Memory is a funny thing, isn’t it? Do you know what day it is today, Mr. Bennett?”

I looked at him. This was insulting. It was Tuesday, November 14th, Sarah’s birthday.

“It is Wednesday, isn’t it?”

I said.

“Or Thursday? The days run together when you don’t work.”

Sarah walked in with a tray of appetizers. She heard my answer and let out a dramatic sigh.

“Dad, it is Tuesday. We told you that on the phone this morning. Remember?”

I blinked rapidly, feigning distress.

“Right. Tuesday. Of course. Sorry, Sarah.”

“It is okay, Dad,”

She said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy.

“Here, have some water. We didn’t want to give you wine with your… you know, your balance issues.”

She handed me a plastic tumbler, not a crystal glass like everyone else—a plastic cup like you would give a toddler. The humiliation burned in my chest hotter than fire. I had designed foundations that held up skyscrapers, and my daughter was giving me a sippy cup because she claimed I could not hold a glass. I took the cup.

“Thank you, dear,”

I said.