My Son Is An Attorney Who Stole My $5.8m Life Savings And Made Me Homeless. He Told The World I Was Senile To Cover His Gambling Debts. How Do I Recover When My Own Child Leaves Me For Dead?

The Discovery of a Heartbreaking Betrayal

The attorney’s fingers trembled slightly as he slid the manila folder across the polished mahogany desk. I watched his Adam’s apple bob twice before he finally met my eyes.

“Mr. Foster, I need you to look at page three.”

I opened the folder. My hands, steady through two tours in Iraq and 30 years of military service, suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else.

The document showed my home, the house where I’d raised my son and where my wife, Grace, had died just three years ago, now titled in Jeremy’s name dated six months prior.

“There must be some mistake,” I said, though even as the words left my mouth, I knew there wasn’t.

“I’m afraid not, sir. Your son filed these transfers while acting under the power of attorney you granted him,” he replied.

“Both properties in Seattle, the cabin in the San Juan Islands, and your accounts at First National Bank—everything.”

The room tilted slightly.

“My accounts?”

He turned to another page. The balance showed $18,347; last I checked three weeks ago, it had been $4.2 million.

My entire life savings, Grace’s life insurance, my pension lump sum, and everything we’d built in 43 years of marriage was gone.

“This can’t be legal,” I managed.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Foster, your son is an attorney himself. He knew exactly what paperwork to file,” he paused.

“I’m sorry, you have 30 days to vacate the premises.”

I sat in that office for 10 minutes after he left, staring at papers that said I no longer owned my own life. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, cutting stripes across the proof of my own stupidity.

I trusted my son, my only child, the boy I’d taught to ride a bike, whose college I’d paid for, and whose law school graduation had been one of the proudest days of my life. And now, at 68 years old, I was being evicted from my own home.

Let me back up; it started two years ago, six months after Grace died. Pancreatic cancer took her in four months from diagnosis to funeral.

Those were the worst four months of my life, watching the woman I loved disappear piece by piece, unable to do anything but hold her hand and pretend I wasn’t terrified. After she died, the house felt too big and too quiet.

I’d wake up at 0500 out of habit, then remember there was no reason to get up. There was no coffee to make for two, no one to talk to about the morning news, just me and 4,000 square feet of memories.

Jeremy started coming by more often. At first, I was grateful for my son making time for his old man.

He’d bring dinner, usually Thai food from that place on Madison. We’d eat and talk, and for an hour or two, the house wouldn’t feel so empty.

“Dad, you’re forgetting things,” he said one evening in May, about eight months after Grace passed.

“Last week you asked me the same question three times.”

“I’m grieving, Jeremy, not senile.”

“I know, I know,” he held up his hands.

“But you’re also dealing with a lot. The houses, the investments, the accounts—Mom used to handle most of that stuff, right?”

He wasn’t wrong. Grace had been the organized one who kept our files in color-coded folders, knew every password, and paid every bill on time.

I’d been deployed for chunks of our marriage, and even when I wasn’t, I’d let her manage the home front. That was our deal.

“What are you suggesting?” I asked.

“Just that maybe you should let me help. I’m an attorney, Dad. I handle estate planning all the time. We could set up a power of attorney and make things easier for you. That way, if something happens, everything’s already in order.”

It made sense. Jeremy was responsible, successful, a partner at a downtown firm, and the paperwork was overwhelming.

I’d found a stack of Grace’s files the week before and just stared at them, unable to make myself open a single folder.

“Okay,” I said.

“If you think it’s best.”

We went to his office the following Tuesday. Jeremy had already drawn up the documents: a general power of attorney giving him authority to manage my financial affairs.

He walked me through each page, explaining in that patient attorney voice he used with clients.

“It’s just a precaution,” he assured me.

“You’re still in charge of everything. This just means if you need help or if something happens to you, I can handle things without going through probate.”

I signed. Rachel, Jeremy’s wife, notarized it with a bright smile.

She was a CPA who ran her own accounting practice—a sharp woman. They’d been married 12 years and had given me a beautiful granddaughter named Pearl.

“Thanks for trusting us, Richard,” Rachel said as she pressed her seal onto the document.

Something about the way she said “us” made me glance up, but she was already turning away, filing the papers in a cabinet.

For the first few months, nothing changed. Then I started noticing little things.

Jeremy stopped coming by as often. When I’d call, he’d be rushed and distracted.

“Sorry, Dad, I’m slammed at work. Can I call you back?”

He usually didn’t. Pearl, my granddaughter, seemed worried whenever I saw her.

She’d just turned 19 and was in her sophomore year at the University of Washington. She was a sharp kid studying pre-law like her father.

“Grandpa, are you doing okay?” she asked one Sunday when she stopped by.

Jeremy and Rachel hadn’t come to family dinner in six weeks, but Pearl still made the drive from campus.

“I’m managing,” I said.

“Why?”

She bit her lip.

“No reason. You just seem, I don’t know, stressed?”

I was stressed. My bank had called twice about unusual transactions, but when I’d asked Jeremy about it, he’d waved it off.

“Just some rebalancing I’m doing with your investments. Trust me, Dad, this is what I do for a living.”

Then came Thanksgiving. Jeremy and Rachel didn’t show up.

I’d spent two days cooking Grace’s recipes: her bourbon pecan pie and herb-crusted turkey. Pearl came, but she was quiet, picking at her food.