My Son Tried To Declare Me Senile To Steal My Business. I Just Served Him A Pot Roast And An Eviction Notice. Was I Too Harsh?
The Warning Call
Three weeks after I promoted my son to vice president of Morrison Auto Group, my accountant called me at 7:00 in the morning.
He said, “Mr. Morrison, I found something in the books that you need to see immediately.”
He continued, “Come to my office alone and please, whatever you do, don’t mention this call to Derek.”
The coffee in my hand went cold Tuesday morning in Houston, the sun already blazing through my kitchen window. Forty-two years I’d spent building Morrison Auto Group from a single garage in Pasadena to 12 locations across the greater Houston area.
I knew every inch of those shops, every lift, every tool. I thought I knew my family too.
I asked, “What’s wrong, Richard?”
He replied, “I can’t explain over the phone. The numbers don’t lie, Harold. Something’s been happening for months and I almost missed it.”
His voice cracked as he added, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The Office of Discrepancies
My son Derek walked into the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, with that easy smile he’d inherited from his mother.
He said, “Morning, Dad. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I forced my expression neutral and said, “Just business stuff. I’ll be at the main shop if anyone needs me.”
Derek nodded, already scrolling through his phone. His wife Crystal appeared behind him, silk robe and perfectly done hair at 7:00 a.m.
She didn’t acknowledge me; she never did anymore. They’d moved into my house 18 months ago.
Derek had said it was temporary, just until they got back on their feet after “the restaurant thing.” The restaurant thing had been a failed investment I’d warned him about—$50,000 of his money gone.
Except it hadn’t been his money. It had been mine.
I drove to Richard Chen’s office in silence, my truck eating up the miles of I-45. Richard had been my accountant for 15 years—meticulous and honest.
His office sat in a small professional building off Westheimer. He was waiting at the door when I pulled in, face gray and folder clutched to his chest.
He shook my hand, his grip weak, and said, “Harold, thank you for coming, please.”
Inside, the office smelled like coffee and printer paper—familiar and safe. Richard closed the door behind us and locked it.
The Phantom Repairs
That’s when I knew this was bad.
He said, “Sit down, Harold.”
I replied, “Just show me.”
He opened the folder on his desk, spreading out bank statements, invoices, and transaction records. I recognized our company letterhead on half of them.
Richard said quietly, “I started noticing discrepancies three months ago. Small things at first.”
He noted a parts order that seemed inflated and a vendor payment that didn’t match our records.
He said, “I thought it was clerical errors. But then I dug deeper.”
His finger traced a line of numbers as he continued, “Someone has been siphoning money from Morrison Auto Group. Fake vendors, inflated invoices, phantom repairs billed to fleet accounts.”
He added, “It’s sophisticated, Harold. Professional.”
I asked, “How much?”
Richard’s hand trembled as he answered, “Over the past 14 months, approximately $370,000.”
The number hit me like a physical blow—370,000. I gripped the arms of my chair and asked, “Who?”
Richard slid another paper across the desk.
He explained, “Every fraudulent transaction traces back to accounts that were created using credentials assigned to your son Derek’s employee login.”
He continued, “Derek’s approval codes. Derek’s digital signature on the fake vendor contracts.”
The room tilted. My son. My boy.
He was the child I’d taught to change oil when he was 12, who I’d put through college, and who I’d promoted to vice president six weeks ago because I wanted him to take over the business someday.
Richard’s voice dropped as he said, “There’s more.”
He continued, “I hired a forensic accountant to verify my findings. She discovered something else. Someone has been making inquiries with elder law attorneys, specifically attorneys who specialize in guardianship and conservatorship proceedings.”
I looked at him.
He explained, “Someone is researching how to have you declared mentally incompetent. The search history was on a laptop connected to your company network—Derek’s laptop.”
The drive home took an hour, but I don’t remember any of it. Just the highway, the heat shimmering off asphalt, and Richard’s voice echoing in my head: $370,000; Mentally incompetent; Your son.
The Hallway Secret
I pulled into my driveway at noon. It was the same brick house I’d lived in for 30 years and the same oak tree Margaret and I had planted when Derek was born.
Everything was the same, except now everything was different. Crystal’s Lexus sat in the driveway, the one I’d co-signed for because Derek said her old car wasn’t safe.
Derek’s BMW was gone, at work supposedly running the business I’d trusted him with. I walked inside slowly; the house felt foreign and hostile.
Voices came from the kitchen—Crystal on the phone laughing. I paused in the hallway, just out of sight.
Crystal’s voice sounded amused as she said, “No, Vanessa, he has no idea. Derek’s got everything under control.”
She continued, “Another six months, maybe less, and we’ll have enough to file the paperwork. Dr. Patterson already agreed to do the evaluation. You know how these things go. Old man living alone, early signs of dementia. The court will appoint Derek as conservator and then everything becomes ours.”
My daughter’s voice crackled through the phone speaker.
She asked if I’d figure it out.
Crystal laughed again and replied, “He still thinks Derek walks on water. We’ll take care of your cut after the conservatorship goes through. Just keep playing the devoted daughter until then.”
I stood frozen in my own hallway, listening to my daughter and my daughter-in-law plan my destruction. Vanessa, my little girl.
She was the one who called every Sunday, who sent flowers on my birthday, who’d hugged me at Margaret’s funeral and promised she’d always be there for me.
Operation Reclamation
When the call ended, I retreated silently to my truck and sat in the driveway for 20 minutes, hands shaking on the steering wheel. Then I called Richard back.
I said, “I need recommendations. A lawyer, someone who specializes in protecting assets from family members trying to steal them, and I need a private investigator, someone discreet.”
Richard didn’t hesitate and said, “I’ll have names for you within the hour.”
It was day one of what I came to think of as “Operation Reclamation.” That’s what Margaret would have called it; she’d always had a flair for drama.
The lawyer’s name was Patricia Okonquo. Her office was in the Galleria area—all glass and polished wood.
She listened to my story without interrupting, then leaned back in her chair.
She said, “Mr. Morrison, what your son and daughter are planning is elder financial abuse. It’s a felony in Texas. Combined with the embezzlement, he’s looking at serious prison time if you choose to prosecute.”
I shook my head.
I replied, “I don’t want him in prison. I want him out of my life and out of my business and I want to protect everything I’ve built.”
Patricia nodded and said, “Then here’s what we’re going to do.”
Over the next two weeks, I became an actor in my own home. I smiled at Derek over breakfast and thanked Crystal for the dinners she occasionally condescended to prepare.
I took Vanessa’s Sunday calls and told her I loved her. Meanwhile, Patricia assembled a fortress.
We created an irrevocable trust, transferring my business interests to its protection. We documented every fraudulent transaction with forensic precision.
We changed beneficiaries on life insurance policies, updated my will, and created a comprehensive estate plan. It left Derek and Vanessa exactly what they deserved: nothing.
