My Son-in-law Is Trying To Put Me In A Nursing Home To Sell My $750,000 Family Cabin. I Overheard Him Telling A Realtor That I’ve Lost My Mind And Can’t Care For Myself Anymore. He Doesn’t Know I’m An Architect Who Designed This House With My Own Hands. Now, I’m Planning A Surprise For Him That He Will Never Forget.

Voices from Below

Our daughter Amanda’s laugh, but not the warm laugh I knew. This one had an edge to it, sharp and excited. And a man’s voice: Brandon, her husband of three years. And a third voice I didn’t recognize. I put my finger to my lips, and Sarah’s eyes went wide. I moved quietly to the attic stairs and listened.

“So the property appraisal came in at 650,000,” The stranger’s voice said.

“Professional, smooth. Given the location and the land acreage, that’s actually conservative. I could probably get you 700, maybe 750 if we market it right during peak season.” My stomach dropped.

“And the paperwork?” That was Brandon’s voice.

“The title transfer documents, all drafted. Once we get your father-in-law’s signature on the preliminary agreement, we can move forward. The property’s in his name alone. Right?” “Right,” Amanda said.

My daughter, my firstborn.

“He’s been really forgetful lately. Mom’s worried about him. We all are.” I felt Sarah’s hand on my shoulder. She was standing behind me now. And when I looked back at her, I saw that her tears had stopped. In their place was something that looked like relief, and maybe a little bit of hope.

“He’s 62,” Amanda continued. “He’s having trouble keeping track of things. Last month he couldn’t remember his own anniversary date.” “That was a goddamn lie,” I thought.

I’d had their anniversary dinner reservations made for 3 months. I’d even coordinated with the restaurant to get Sarah’s favorite table by the window.

“And he’s agreed to this?” The realtor asked.

Brandon laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made my fists clench.

“He will. We just need to present it the right way. Frame it as concern for their well-being. The cabin’s too much for them to maintain. The stairs are getting dangerous for his knees. Better to sell now while the market’s hot and put them in one of those nice assisted living communities.” “I’m 62, not 92,” I muttered.

Sarah squeezed my shoulder.

“I know,” She whispered.

“Besides,” Brandon continued. “Once we sell, we can finally move forward with the development project I told you about. I’ve got investors lined up. With the profits from this sale as our stake money, we’re looking at turning a seven-figure deal inside 2 years.” My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack.

This wasn’t about concern for our well-being. This was about Brandon’s real estate schemes. He’d been a developer for 5 years, always chasing the next big deal, always one project away from making it big. And now he wanted to use my family’s legacy as his seed money.

“David,” Sarah whispered, pulling at my arm. “We need to.” But I held up my hand because I heard footsteps on the stairs. Multiple sets.