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?
Gathering the Evidence
I knew what those papers were. They wouldn’t wait for the court. They wanted me to sign a power of attorney voluntarily tonight. They would use the doctor’s presence to certify I was lucid enough to sign but sick enough to need it. It was a Catch-22 trap.
“Excuse me,”
I said, standing up slowly.
“I need to use the restroom.”
Michael stood up too.
“Do you need help finding it, Dad?”
“I know where it is, Michael,”
I said. I shuffled out of the dining room. As soon as I turned the corner into the hallway, my posture straightened. I moved silently, not toward the bathroom, but toward Michael’s home office down the hall. The door was ajar. I slipped inside and closed the door softly. I could hear their voices in the dining room arguing about Mia’s outburst. I had about 3 minutes.
I walked to Michael’s desk. His laptop was open. The screen was dark, but I tapped the space bar. It prompted for a password. I looked around. Michael was arrogant, but he was not creative. There was a sticky note under the lamp base: Range Rover 88. I typed it in. The screen flared to life. It was open to his email. The inbox was a wall of red flags: Urgent, Final Notice, Delinquency Alert, Foreclosure Warning.
I clicked on the most recent email from a sender named Vantage Capital. The subject line was Immediate Payment Required.
“Mr. Miller, your outstanding balance of $1.2 million is now 30 days past due. The collateral you pledged, the property at 42 Oak Street, is now subject to seizure. If payment is not received by Friday, we will proceed with liquidation.”
I froze. 42 Oak Street. That was my house. My modest little house that I had owned free and clear for 30 years. How had he pledged my house as collateral? I minimized the window and searched his files. I found a folder labeled Deeds. Inside was a scanned copy of a quitclaim deed dated 6 months ago, transferring ownership of my house to Michael Miller. At the bottom was my signature, but I had never signed it. It was a forgery. A clumsy one, but good enough for a predatory lender.
I felt a wave of nausea. They weren’t just going to put me in a home. They had already stolen mine. They needed to lock me away so I wouldn’t discover the foreclosure notice when it was pinned to my door. I pulled out my phone and took photos of the screen—the emails, the forged deed, the bank statements showing Michael’s crypto trading account with a balance of zero, down from $800,000. He had gambled it all away.
Suddenly, the doorknob turned. I barely had time to lock the phone screen and step away from the desk before the door opened. It was Sarah. She stopped when she saw me. Her eyes darted to the computer, then to me.
“Dad, what are you doing in here? The bathroom is the other way.”
I looked at her, my little girl. The girl I taught to ride a bike. The girl I walked down the aisle. She was looking at me with suspicion and fear.
“I… I got turned around, Sarah,”
I said, letting the confused tremor return to my voice.
“I was looking for the coat closet. I wanted to go home.”
She let out a breath she had been holding. She believed me. She believed I was just a senile old man lost in a hallway.
“The coat closet is by the front door, Dad. Come on. Let’s go back to the table. Michael has the papers ready.”
The Signature Attempt
I followed her back to the dining room. I had the evidence. I had the recording. Now I just needed to survive the next hour without signing my life away. We sat back down. Michael cleared the table and placed a thick stack of documents in front of me. He uncapped a pen.
“Okay, Dad,”
Michael said.
“This is just standard stuff. Updated medical insurance forms and a permission slip so Sarah can pick up your prescriptions for you. Just sign here, here, and here.”
He pointed to the signature lines. He was covering the text of the document with his other hand. I leaned in, squinting. My glasses were in my pocket, but I pretended I couldn’t find them.
“I can’t see the letters very well, son,”
I said.
“It is all blurry.”
“Just sign where my finger is, Dad. Trust me,”
Michael said, pressing the pen into my hand. I held the pen. The tip hovered over the paper. It was a durable power of attorney. I could see the header peeking out from under his palm.
“I… I don’t know,”
I stammered. My hand shook violently. The pen skittered across the paper, leaving a jagged ink trail that looked nothing like a signature. It tore through the page.
“Oops,”
I said, dropping the pen.
“Look what I did. I am so clumsy.”
Michael snatched the paper away, cursing under his breath.
“Damn it, Joseph! Look at this mess.”
“It is okay,”
Dr. Aris said smoothly.
“We can print another copy. But perhaps Mr. Bennett is too fatigued tonight. His motor skills are clearly compromised. This is good evidence for the affidavit, Michael.”
Sarah looked at me with pure venom.
“You are useless, Dad. Can’t you do one simple thing?”
I shrank back in my chair.
“I am sorry, Sarah. I just want to go to bed.”
“Fine,”
She snapped.
“We will go to the lawyer’s office tomorrow morning. We will have him guide your hand if we have to.”
