My Son Tried To Convince Me I Had Dementia To Steal My Money. He Forgot I Spent 40 Years In The Fbi As A Financial Auditor. Now He Is Facing Federal Prison. Am I The Jerk For Reporting My Own Child?

The Auditor and the Million-Dollar Smile

They used to call me the Auditor, not because I was boring or obsessed with spreadsheets, though God knows I’ve looked at enough of those in my lifetime. They called me the Auditor because when I examined your finances, I could see everything: every hidden account, every suspicious transaction, every lie you told yourself about where the money went.

I spent 40 years with the FBI tracking money for organized crime cases, corporate fraud investigations, and corruption trials. Numbers don’t lie; people do.

And after four decades, I could spot a liar from their bank statement alone. I’m 72 now, retired for seven years, living in a modest condo in Miami, spending my days reading mystery novels and teaching financial literacy at the senior center.

My son Daniel thinks I’m losing it. His new wife, Jennifer, certainly does.

That’s why they flew down from California last Tuesday, all concerned faces and gentle voices, talking about getting my affairs in order and making sure I’m protected. Daniel showed up at my door with his million-dollar smile, the one he inherited from his father.

Jennifer stood behind him, her yogurt-toned arms crossed, her designer handbag probably worth more than my monthly pension.

“Mom,” Daniel said, hugging me. “You look great, really great.”

His eyes scanned my living room like he was appraising it for sale. I noticed; I always notice.

“We’ve been worried about you,” Jennifer added, her voice dripping with concern that felt as genuine as a three-dollar bill. “Daniel said you forgot his birthday last month.”

I hadn’t forgotten; I’d chosen not to call. There’s a difference.

But I smiled and played along. “Oh, did I? I’m so sorry, honey. Things just slip my mind these days.”

Daniel exchanged a look with Jennifer. A quick glance, barely a second, but I caught it.

The kind of look that said, “See? I told you.” That look made something cold settle in my chest.

After 40 years of reading people, I knew what that look meant. They thought I was vulnerable; they thought I was weak; they thought this was going to be easy.

“That’s actually why we’re here, Mom,” Daniel said, guiding me to sit on my own couch like I was the guest.

“We’ve set up a meeting with a lawyer tomorrow, Steven Roberts. He’s a friend from my Stanford days. Really sharp guy. We just want to make sure all your paperwork is in order—Power of Attorney, healthcare directives, that kind of thing. You know, so if anything happens, someone can help you manage things.”

“Manage things?” I repeated slowly. “You mean manage my money?”

“Mom, don’t be like that,” Daniel’s voice had an edge now, the tone he used when he was losing patience.

“We’re trying to help you. You’re 72. You live alone. What if something happens? What if you forget to pay a bill? What if someone takes advantage of you?”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. But I nodded and played the confused old woman they expected me to be.

“You’re right, sweetie. That’s very thoughtful of you both. What time is the appointment?”

Relief washed over Jennifer’s face. “10:00 a.m. tomorrow. We’ll pick you up at 9:30.”

The Habit of Digging

After they left, I sat in my living room for a long time, staring at my reflection in the darkened TV screen. An old woman with gray hair and age spots looked back at me.

When had I become this person they thought they could manipulate? When had I become invisible?

Then I remembered I wasn’t invisible. I was the Auditor.

And the Auditor never stopped working. I pulled out my laptop, the one Daniel thinks I barely know how to use, and I started digging.

First stop: my credit report. I pulled it from all three bureaus, something I did quarterly out of habit.

The FBI had drilled into us that identity theft often starts at home with family members who know your social security number and mother’s maiden name. There they were: three credit cards I’d never opened—Capital One, Chase, and American Express—opened eight months ago, six months ago, and three months ago respectively.

Total balance: $47,000. Charges in California; charges at stores I’d never shopped at.

A payment to a jewelry store, a payment to a luxury car detailing service, a payment to something called Premium Ventures LLC. My hands were shaking, but not from age—from rage, from the kind of cold, calculated fury that used to help me nail mobsters and corrupt executives.

My own son, my only child. The boy I’d raised alone after his father died.

The kid I’d put through Stanford by working overtime and living in a tiny apartment. He’d stolen from me.

But I couldn’t act yet, not without more information. The Auditor’s first rule: gather all the evidence before you make a move.

Emotion makes you sloppy; facts make you bulletproof. I pulled up Jennifer’s social media: Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn.

Her maiden name was Jennifer Holloway, married to Daniel for eight months. Before that, she’d been Jennifer Morrison, and before that, Jennifer Castellano.

Two previous marriages. I cross-referenced her previous names against public records, death certificates, and property transfers.

Robert Castellano, 58, died of a heart attack in 2019. He’d been married to Jennifer for three years, and left her a house in San Diego worth 1.2 million, sold six months after his death.

Marcus Morrison, 63, died in a car accident in 2022. He’d been married to Jennifer for two years.

He left her a portfolio of investments worth roughly 800,000, liquidated within a year. Now she was married to my son, who was 41.

Third time’s the charm, I suppose. Except this time, she wasn’t waiting for her husband to die.

She was helping herself to his mother’s money while the mother was still breathing. I dug deeper into Steven Roberts, the lawyer.

Stanford Law class of 2004, same year as Daniel, but there was a gap in his career history—2018 to 2020, no law firm listed. I searched his name in California State Bar Records.

Suspended license: suspended for two years for misappropriation of client funds. Reinstated in 2021 with probation conditions.