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?
“You didn’t yell. You didn’t hit me. You just looked disappointed, and that hurt worse than any punishment. You’re probably feeling that disappointment now multiplied by a million.”
“I’ve been clean for 18 months—no gambling. I’m working with a therapist on why I felt entitled to your money, why I justified it. The answers aren’t pretty.”
“I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t expect a relationship when I get out. But I want you to know I’m trying to become someone different. Someone better. Someone who might one day be worthy of the name Foster.”
“Pearl visited me last month, first time since the trial. We talked for two hours. She told me about the foundation, about helping people I hurt—people like you. She’s a better person than I ever was.”
“You did a good job with her, even though she’s technically mine. All the good parts of her came from you and Mom.”
“I miss Mom. I wish she was here to talk to. She always knew what to say.”
“I’m going to be in here for two more years minimum. When I get out, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t practice law. Rachel and I are getting divorced; she’s already out, living with her sister in Portland.”
“I’ll probably work construction or something—start over from nothing. But I wanted you to know I’m trying. And I wanted to say thank you.”
“Thank you for Pearl. Thank you for teaching me, even when I didn’t listen. Thank you for being the man I should have been. And thank you for leaving that door open a crack, even if I never walk through it. Knowing it’s there helps. Your son, Jeremy.”
I read that letter three times, then I did something I hadn’t done since the trial: I wrote back. Not a long letter, just a few lines.
“Jeremy, I read your letter. Thank you for writing it. Recovery is possible. Redemption is possible. But they’re not easy, and they take time.”
“Keep going to meetings. Keep seeing your therapist. Keep doing the work. When you get out, call me. We’ll get coffee. We’ll talk.”
“I’m not promising reconciliation. I’m not promising a relationship like we had before. But I’m promising this: I’ll listen. One day at a time, son. Dad.”
Pearl found me at my desk that evening, the letter sealed and stamped.
“Are you sure, Grandpa?”
“No,” I admitted.
“But your grandmother used to say that forgiveness isn’t about certainty; it’s about hope. Hope that people can change. Hope that families can heal, even if they heal into something different.”
“Do you think Dad can change?”
“I don’t know. But I think he’s trying, and maybe that’s enough to start.”
She hugged me.
“Mom would be proud of you.”
“Your grandmother was proud of everyone. That was her gift.”
The foundation launched in June 2025. We’d already helped 17 people—elderly folks who’d been scammed by relatives, stripped of assets, and left with nothing.
Linda ran the legal side. Pearl handled intake and case management. I did outreach and fundraising, speaking at senior centers and community groups.
It wasn’t the retirement I’d planned. I’d imagined traveling with Grace, visiting the kids we’d never had, and growing old in the house we’d bought in 1982.
Instead, I was 70 years old, living alone, working harder than I had in a decade, and trying to heal wounds I couldn’t see. But it was good work—important work.
And some nights, when I sat on my balcony watching the sun set over Elliott Bay, I felt something close to peace. My father’s war bonds had saved me, but they’d done more than that.
They’d taught me something about legacy: that what we leave behind isn’t just money or property. It’s the choices we make, the values we pass down, and the help we offer to those who come after us.
