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?

She left, slamming the door hard enough to crack the frame. On day 29, Derek didn’t come home.

Crystal spent the day packing, throwing clothes into suitcases with furious energy. She paused occasionally to take photos of my possessions, probably imagining what she’d claim in some future lawsuit.

I sat on my back porch and watched the sunset over the Houston skyline. Forty-two years I’d built this life.

One wife buried too soon. Two children rotten to the core. Twelve auto shops saved from their schemes. One house almost peaceful again.

On day 30, I called Patricia at 8:00 a.m. to confirm everything was ready. The Sheriff’s office had been notified.

A moving company was on standby to haul their belongings to whatever apartment they’d found. I parked in my driveway at 9:00 a.m.

The Sheriff’s cruiser pulled in behind me. Deputy Hernandez stepped out, adjusting his belt.

He asked, “Mr. Morrison, ready to do this?”

I replied, “More than ready.”

We walked to the front door together. I knocked, even though it was my own house—old habits.

Derek opened the door. His eyes were red, and stubble covered his jaw.

Behind him, Crystal clutched a designer purse like a weapon.

I said, “This is Deputy Hernandez. He’s here to ensure you vacate the premises peacefully.”

The Vacating of Premises

Derek’s voice cracked as he pleaded, “Dad, please. I’m your son.”

I met his eyes and replied, “You were my son. Now you’re a stranger who stole from me and tried to have me declared incompetent. You have two hours to remove your personal belongings.”

Crystal pushed past Derek and yelled, “You’ll regret this! We’ll sue you for everything! This isn’t over!”

Deputy Hernandez stepped forward.

He said, “Ma’am, I suggest you focus on packing.”

They spent 90 minutes throwing their lives into boxes and garbage bags. Crystal screamed at Derek; Derek screamed at the walls.

Neither of them looked at me. At 11:15 a.m., they loaded the last box into Crystal’s Lexus—the car I’d co-signed for.

I made a note to call the dealership about getting my name removed. Derek stood at the end of the driveway, box in hand, looking old and suddenly defeated.

For a moment, I saw the little boy who’d learned to change oil beside me. He was the one who’d eaten Margaret’s pot roast and asked for seconds, and who’d cried at his mother’s funeral.

Then he spoke.

He said, “Mom would be ashamed of you.”

I replied, “No, son. She’d be ashamed of you. That’s the part you’ll never understand.”

They drove away. The Lexus disappeared around the corner, carrying my son and his wife out of my life.

Deputy Hernandez handed me paperwork.

He said, “They’re officially out, Mr. Morrison. Call us if they come back.”

I replied, “Thank you, Deputy.”

Lemon and Possibility

After he left, I walked through the house slowly. The guest wing they’d occupied for 18 months was empty now.

There were dirty dishes in the sink and trash they hadn’t bothered to collect. A faint smell of Crystal’s perfume lingered in the air.

I spent the rest of the day cleaning—scrubbing floors, washing windows, airing out rooms. By evening, the house smelled like lemon and possibility.

My phone buzzed with a text from Vanessa.

She wrote, “I hope you’re happy alone. Don’t expect me at your funeral.”

I deleted it without responding. Three weeks later, the criminal referral was filed.

The District Attorney’s office was reviewing Derek’s case. Patricia estimated a strong chance of indictment, though she warned me it could take months.

I didn’t care about the legal outcome anymore. I’d protected my business, my assets, my legacy.

Margaret’s memory wouldn’t be tainted by their schemes. The house felt different now—not empty, but peaceful.

I woke when I wanted, ate what I wanted, and watched whatever I wanted on my own television. Small freedoms I’d forgotten existed.

I started volunteering at a vocational high school, teaching kids basic automotive repair. They were the same skills I’d learned at their age, the skills that had built everything I had.

They called me Mr. Morrison; they listened and wanted to learn.