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?

A Legacy Found in the Shadows

Pearl helped me find a small two-bedroom apartment in Belltown. She paid the deposit and first month’s rent from her own savings, money she’d been putting away for law school.

I tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t hear it.

“You paid for Dad’s education,” she said.

“It’s only fair someone pays for yours.”

“My education?”

“Your education in how terrible people can be,” she tried to smile, but it came out sad.

“Even people you love.”

I moved into that apartment two weeks before Christmas. Pearl came with me; she’d officially estranged herself from her parents, choosing her grandfather over them.

I told her she didn’t have to do that, that they were still her parents.

“They’re thieves,” she said.

“And I’m going to help you get justice.”

But justice seemed impossible. I went to see an elder law attorney, a woman named Linda Yamamoto.

She listened to my story with a carefully neutral expression.

“Mr. Foster, what your son did is called elder financial abuse. It’s illegal under California Penal Code 368. The problem is proving it.”

“I have bank records, property transfers, everything.”

“Yes, but you also signed a valid power of attorney. Your son will argue he was acting in your best interests. To win, we’d need to prove he had criminal intent—that he deliberately exploited you for personal gain.”

“He’s a gambling addict. He stole my money to pay his debts.”

“Can you prove the gambling debts? Can you prove the connection between his debts and your money?”

I couldn’t, at least not yet.

“How much would a case like this cost?” I asked.

“$50,000 retainer minimum. Probably $200,000 by the time we go to trial, maybe more.”

I had $18,000 to my name. My pension was $2,400 a month and Social Security added another $1,800.

I could survive, barely, but I couldn’t fight. Linda must have seen the despair on my face.

“Let me think about this,” she said.

“Give me a few days.”

I left her office and walked the 20 blocks home. It was raining—that Seattle winter drizzle that soaks through everything.

I was 68 years old, my wife was dead, my son had stolen everything I owned, and I was powerless to stop him. That night, I sat in my apartment and did something I hadn’t done since Grace’s funeral: I cried.

Pearl found me like that. She didn’t say anything, just sat beside me and held my hand, just like I’d held Grace’s hand in those final days.

“We’ll figure this out, Grandpa,” she whispered.

“I promise.”

But I didn’t see how. Three days later, Linda called.

“Mr. Foster, I’d like to take your case on contingency.”

“What?”

“I’ll work for free upfront. If we win, I take 30% of whatever we recover. If we lose, you pay nothing.”

“Why would you do that?”

She was quiet for a moment.

“My grandmother went through something similar. Different circumstances, but the same helplessness. Nobody helped her. She died in a nursing home believing she was a burden. I became an elder law attorney so I could be the person she needed. I think you have a strong case, Mr. Foster, and I think your son needs to be stopped.”

I hired her that day. Linda moved fast.

She filed a lawsuit against Jeremy and Rachel, alleging elder abuse, fraud, and breach of fiduciary duty. She subpoenaed their financial records and hired a forensic accountant to trace where my money had gone.

Jeremy responded by cutting off all contact. He got a restraining order against me, claiming I was mentally unstable and a danger to him and Rachel.

The judge granted it. I was forbidden from coming within 500 feet of my own son.

Pearl was furious.

“They can’t do this! You’re the victim here!”

But they could, and they did. Jeremy was a skilled attorney who knew every legal trick and every loophole.

He painted me as a confused old man who’d voluntarily given him power of attorney and was now suffering from dementia and regret. His attorneys filed a motion to dismiss based on the valid power of attorney.

The hearing was set for February.

I spent Christmas in that small apartment with Pearl. She’d bought a three-foot tree from a corner lot and decorated it with handmade ornaments.

We ate Chinese takeout and watched It’s a Wonderful Life. Neither of us mentioned the irony.

“Do you think we’ll win?” she asked during a commercial.

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“What if we don’t? What if Dad gets away with this?”

I didn’t have an answer.

In January, Linda’s forensic accountant finished his report. The news was worse than I’d thought.

Jeremy hadn’t just stolen $4.2 million; over the course of 18 months, he’d taken nearly $5.8 million, including the equity from the houses and various investment accounts I hadn’t even known about.

The money had gone to casinos, online gambling sites, and loan sharks. Jeremy owed $900,000 to particularly dangerous people, according to the accountant.

Rachel had been complicit from the beginning, using her CPA license to hide the transfers and create false documentation.

“This is actually good news,” Linda said when she showed me the report.

“How is any of this good news?”

“Because it proves intent. Your son didn’t just make poor investment choices. He systematically looted your accounts to pay illegal debts. That’s not estate planning; that’s theft.”

But proving it in court was another matter. Jeremy’s attorneys filed motion after motion, delaying the trial and burying us in paperwork.

Linda was working for free, but she still had costs: court fees, expert witnesses, and depositions. The forensic accountant alone had cost $15,000.

Pearl took a semester off from school to work as Linda’s paralegal assistant, also for free. She learned the case inside and out, tracked every filing, and managed every deadline.

At 19 years old, she was more organized than some senior attorneys, but money was still the problem. We were running out.

“I might be able to get a loan,” I told Linda in early February, a week before the dismissal hearing.

“Against what collateral, Richard?” she asked gently.

“You don’t own anything.”

She was right. I’d never felt so helpless—68 years old and I couldn’t even protect myself from my own son.

That weekend, Pearl and I drove out to a storage unit in Tacoma. It held what little I’d managed to save from the house: photo albums, Grace’s jewelry, and my military medals and memorabilia.

“Why are we here?” Pearl asked as I unlocked the unit.

“Your grandmother kept important documents here. Her will, insurance policies, that sort of thing. I thought maybe there was something I’d missed.”

We spent three hours going through boxes. It was painful. Every photo, every letter was a reminder of what I’d lost: Grace’s handwriting on birthday cards, pictures of Jeremy as a baby, a teenager, a man.