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?
Seeking Justice
This was my son. The baby I rocked at 3:00 in the morning. The boy who used to bring me dandelions from the backyard like they were roses. The man who stood beside me at Harold’s funeral and promised he’d always take care of me.
Somewhere along the way, that promise had rotted into something else.
The next morning I called a lawyer. Her name was Patricia Hendris, and she came highly recommended by one of my former colleagues. She had silver hair cut short, glasses that made her look perpetually skeptical, and a handshake that meant business.
We met at her office downtown. I brought every document I had. She spread them across her desk and studied them with the focus of a surgeon examining X-rays.
“Your son forged a legal document,” she said finally. “That’s a felony.”
“I know.”
“He attempted to sell your property without authorization. That’s fraud.”
“I know that too.”
She looked up at me. “What do you want to do about it?”
I took a breath. This was the question I’d been asking myself for days. What did I want? Justice? Revenge? My son in handcuffs? No. What I wanted was simpler and harder than any of those things.
“I want to protect myself,” I said. “I want my house secure. I want him legally barred from any authority over my affairs. And I want there to be consequences. Real consequences, not just a family argument he can dismiss.”
Patricia nodded slowly.
“We can do that. I’ll file for a protective order and pursue criminal charges through the DA’s office. Forgery and attempted fraud at minimum. If there’s a pattern of financial manipulation, potentially elder abuse.”
Elder abuse. The words hung in the air like smoke.
“He’s my son,” I said quietly.
“I know,” her voice softened just slightly. “That’s what makes it harder. And that’s why it has to stop.”
The weeks that followed were a blur of paperwork and phone calls and meetings. Patricia moved quickly. She filed the criminal complaint. She contacted the DA. She had me undergo a cognitive evaluation just to establish on record that I was fully competent.
I passed with flying colors. The doctor said my memory was sharper than most people half my age. I told him I’d spent 40 years memorizing student names and test dates. He laughed and signed the paperwork.
Meanwhile, Marcus called. First angry, then pleading, then angry again. He accused me of ruining his life. He said I was being manipulated by Rebecca. He said I’d always favored her. He said I was vindictive, senile, paranoid.
I let the calls go to voicemail, every single one. Then I saved them. Patricia said they might be useful.
The Courtroom
The court date was set for late October. I remember the day clearly. The sky was gray, the kind of flat autumn gray that makes everything feel muted.
Rebecca drove me to the courthouse. She held my hand as we walked up the steps.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m ready.”
The hearing was in a small courtroom on the second floor. Marcus was already there with his lawyer, a nervous-looking young man who kept adjusting his tie. Marcus didn’t look at me when I entered. He stared straight ahead like I was a stranger.
The judge was a woman in her 60s with sharp eyes and no patience for nonsense. She reviewed the case file in silence for several minutes before speaking.
“Mr. Coleman,” she said. “You are accused of forgery, fraud, and attempted theft of property. How do you plead?”
Marcus’ lawyer stood. “Not guilty, Your Honor. My client was acting in what he believed to be his mother’s best interest. There was a misunderstanding about the scope of the power of attorney.”
“A misunderstanding,” the judge interrupted, “that involved whiting out an expiration date and submitting the altered document to a licensed realtor?”
The lawyer faltered. “We… we contend that Mrs. Coleman had previously expressed a desire to sell the property, and my client was simply…”
“I never expressed any such desire,” I said.
The judge turned to me. “Mrs. Coleman, you’ll have your opportunity to speak.”
“I apologize, Your Honor. But I want to be clear. I never discussed selling my home with my son. I never authorized him to contact a realtor. And I never signed any document giving him authority over my property after 2017.”
The judge nodded. “Let the record show that the respondent has a notarized cognitive evaluation confirming full mental capacity, and documentary evidence that the power of attorney in question expired over 6 years before these events.”
She turned back to Marcus. “Mr. Coleman, do you have anything to say?”
For a moment, he was silent. Then he looked at me for the first time since I’d entered the room. His eyes were hard, but underneath the hardness I saw something else: fear. The fear of a man who had gambled on his mother’s silence and lost.
“I was trying to help her,” he said.
“She can’t live alone in that house. She’s 81 years old. She needs…”
“What I need,” I interrupted, “is to be treated like a human being. Not a problem to be managed. Not an obstacle to be removed.”
I looked directly at him.
“I raised you, Marcus. I taught you right from wrong. I bailed you out of debt three times. And this is how you repay me? By trying to steal my home while I sleep?”
The courtroom went silent.
The judge spoke. “Mr. Coleman, based on the evidence presented, I am finding probable cause for forgery in the first degree and attempted fraud. This case will be bound over for trial. Bail is set at $20,000.”
Marcus’ face went white.
“Additionally,” the judge continued, “a protective order is hereby issued. Mr. Coleman is prohibited from contacting Mrs. Coleman, accessing her financial accounts, or coming within 500 ft of her property.”
She looked at me. “Mrs. Coleman, is there anything else you’d like to say?”
I stood slowly. My knees ached, my back was stiff, but I stood straight.
“I spent my whole life taking care of other people,” I said. “My students, my husband, my children. I never asked for much, just respect. Just to be seen as a person, not a burden.”
I paused. “My son forgot that somewhere along the way. I hope someday he remembers. But until then, I have to protect myself because nobody else will.”
The judge nodded. “Court is adjourned.”
