My Son And His Wife Locked Me In The Attic To Steal My House. They Thought I Had Dementia, But I Recorded Every Word Of Their Plan. Was I Too Harsh To Call The Police?

Secrets in the Attic

I climbed the narrow stairs to the attic on a Tuesday morning after Michael called to say they’d be coming by on Thursday to help me sort through some things. Jessica had suggested we start with the attic, he said. There might be valuable antiques up there.

The attic smelled like cedar and old paper. Morning light streamed through the gable window, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. I went straight to Robert’s filing cabinet and started going through the folders, just to remind myself what was there.

Everything seemed in order. But then I found something that didn’t belong. In the folder marked Property Deed Original, there was a second deed, a newer one. And it had my signature on it, transferring the house to Michael, dated three weeks ago.

But I never signed any such document. My hands shook as I held the paper up to the light. The signature looked like mine, but I’d been a teacher long enough to spot a forgery. The “M” was wrong. I always made a distinctive loop in my “M,” a habit from decades of signing papers. This one was close, but not quite right.

I sat down on an old trunk, my heart pounding. They were forging documents. They were trying to steal my house.

The Trap

That’s when I heard voices downstairs. Jessica and Michael, two days earlier than they’d said they’d come. I heard the front door close. I heard Jessica’s voice, sharp and clear.

“Is she here?”

“Her car is in the driveway,” Michael answered.

“Perfect. Go check downstairs. I’ll look up here.”

I heard footsteps on the stairs—quick, purposeful. I folded the forged deed and tucked it into my cardigan pocket, then went to the attic door. But before I could open it, I heard Jessica on the other side.

“Margaret, are you up here?”

I opened the door and stepped onto the landing. Jessica stood there, her expression shifting from surprise to something else, something calculating.

“Oh good, you’re going through the attic already. That’s perfect. Michael and I came early to help.”

She looked past me into the attic, her eyes scanning.

“Why don’t you come downstairs and we’ll discuss what to do with all this stuff?”

“I’m not quite finished,” I said.

“That’s okay, we have time.” She smiled, but it was strained. “Come on down, I’ll make us some tea.”

She was standing in my way. I had to brush past her to get to the stairs, and as I did, I felt her hand on my back. Not pushing, just touching. And then suddenly she stepped backwards.

“Actually, you know what? Why don’t you stay up here and keep sorting? We’ll call you when the tea is ready. Wouldn’t want you going up and down these steep stairs too many times. You know, safety first.”

Before I could respond, she pulled the attic door shut. I heard the click of the lock. I stood there stunned, my hand on the doorknob. I tried turning it, but it wouldn’t budge. The old skeleton key lock that Robert always meant to replace but never did—it could be locked from the outside.

“Jessica!” I called out. “Jessica, the door is locked!”

The Betrayal

I heard her voice, muffled but clear enough. She wasn’t talking to me.

“She’s secure,” Jessica said finally. “God, I thought she’d never go up there.”

Michael’s voice, hesitant. “Jess, I don’t know about this.”

“We talked about this, Michael. We need her out of this house and she’s not cooperating. A few days up there, she’ll be confused, disoriented. We’ll call Adult Protective Services, say we’re concerned about her mental state. She got confused, locked herself in the attic, couldn’t remember how to get out. Classic signs of dementia.”

“But she doesn’t have dementia.”

“They don’t know that. And once they evaluate her, once she’s in a facility, we’ll have power of attorney. The house is as good as ours. We’ve got the forged deed as backup, but this is cleaner. No one questions family looking out for their elderly relative.”

I pressed my ear against the door, my heart hammering so hard I thought they might hear it.

“What if someone comes by?” Michael asked.

“Who’s going to come by? She doesn’t have friends over anymore. The neighbors barely see her. We’ll tell anyone who asks that she’s visiting relatives. In three days, we call APS. In a week, she’s in memory care. In a month, this house is on the market. We’ll clear half a million easy, even after we pay off our debts.”

“I still feel… what? Guilty?”

“She’s old, Michael. She’s going to end up in a home anyway eventually. We’re just speeding up the inevitable. Think about it this way: we’re actually doing her a favor. She won’t have to worry about maintaining this house anymore.”

They laughed. Both of them. My son laughed.

I heard their footsteps going down the stairs, and then the house went quiet. I stood there for a long moment, just breathing. Then I looked around the attic with new eyes. This wasn’t a prison; this was my territory. This was where Robert kept everything, including things they didn’t know about.