My Son Tried To Sell My House While I Was Sleeping. He Thought I Was Too Senile To Notice His Forged Documents. Now He Is Facing Felony Charges And I Am Not Backing Down. Should I Have Forgiven Him?

Confronting the Realtor

Tuesday came. I made coffee. I set out some cookies on a plate, the fancy butter ones I save for company.

And at 10:15, a silver sedan pulled into my driveway., A woman in a navy blazer stepped out carrying a clipboard and a folder of papers. She walked up the front steps with the confident stride of someone who had done this a hundred times.

I opened the door before she knocked.

“Mrs. Coleman?” She smiled, professional and bright. “I’m Teresa Vance from Prestige Realty. I’m here for our walkthrough.”

“Walkthrough?” I repeated.

“Yes, for the listing. Your son Marcus arranged it. He said you were expecting me.”

I tilted my head. “Did he?”

Her smile faltered just slightly. “Is there a problem?”

“Please,” I said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

I led her to the living room and offered her coffee. She accepted, still holding her clipboard like a shield. I could see the confusion settling into her face, the dawning realization that something wasn’t adding up.

“Mrs. Vance,” I said, sitting across from her. “I need to ask you something. Who signed the listing agreement for this property?”

She blinked. “Your son, Marcus Coleman. He has power of attorney.”

“May I see the document he provided?”

She hesitated, then pulled a paper from her folder and handed it to me. I read it slowly, deliberately.

It was the same limited POA from 2016, the one that expired 7 years ago. Someone had whited out the expiration date and photocopied it.

“This document is expired,” I said calmly. “And even when it was valid, it didn’t authorize property transactions.”

Teresa’s face went pale.

“I… I wasn’t aware. He presented it as current.”

“I’m sure he did, Mrs. Coleman. I am so sorry.”

“If I had known…”

“You didn’t know,” I said. “But now you do. And I’d like you to cancel the listing and provide me with copies of everything my son submitted to your office.”

She nodded quickly, already reaching for her phone.

“Of course. Absolutely. I’ll have everything sent over today.”

The Showdown

After she left, I sat alone in the living room for a long time. The coffee grew cold; the cookies sat untouched.

Outside, the wind moved through the maple tree, and I watched the shadows dance across the carpet like they’d done every afternoon for 50 years.

That evening, Marcus came home., He walked in with takeout bags from the Chinese place on Fifth Street, the one Harold and I used to go to on Friday nights.

“Hey Mom,” he called. “Brought dinner.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table. The documents were in front of me. He stopped when he saw them.

“What’s all this?”

“The realtor came today.”

His face flickered just for a second, then he recovered.

“Oh right, I meant to tell you about that. I’ve been thinking, Mom, this house is a lot for you to handle alone. I found a really nice place over in Green View Assisted Living, beautiful facility. I thought if we sold the house we could stop…”

He blinked. I said, “Stop.”

I kept my voice level, not loud, not angry, just firm. The same voice I used on students who thought they could talk their way out of a failed exam.

“I heard you on the phone Saturday night. I know what you’re planning. And I know you forged documents to do it.”

Marcus stood frozen in the doorway, still holding the takeout bags. For a moment, he looked like he did at 12 years old, caught sneaking cookies before dinner. Then his expression hardened.

“Mom, you’re confused. You probably heard something out of context.”

“And the power of attorney expired in 2017. You altered the document and presented it to a realtor as current. That’s forgery and fraud.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” I slid one of the papers toward him. “This is the original. This is the copy you gave Prestige Realty. Notice anything different?”

He didn’t look at it. He didn’t need to; he knew.

“Even if there was some misunderstanding,” he said slowly, “I was trying to help you. You can’t live here alone forever. You’re 81. You forget things. You leave the stove on, you…”

“I turned the stove off after you left the burner running last week,”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“And I remember every birthday in this family, every anniversary, every debt you’ve asked me to help you pay off over the past 20 years.”

I stood up, feeling the ache in my knees but ignoring it.

“I am not confused. I am not incapable. And I am not moving.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he set the bags down on the counter with exaggerated calm.

“Fine,” he said. “You want to stay in this house until it falls apart around you? Be my guest. But don’t come crying to me when you can’t handle it anymore.”

He left that night, packed his bags, got in his car, and drove off without another word. I watched his taillights disappear down the street.

I thought I would feel relieved. Instead, I felt hollow.