Margaret, I said slowly. Do you think they planned this? While I was gone?
“I think,” Margaret said carefully, “that you might want to find out exactly what’s been happening with your property while you’ve been here.”
She stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the parking lot.
You know, Bula, the thing about nursing homes is that once you’re in one, people assume you’re helpless. They stop consulting you about decisions. They start making assumptions about your mental capacity.
What are you saying?
Margaret turned back to me and I saw the lawyer she used to be in her eyes.
I’m saying that being in here doesn’t make you powerless. You still own that house. You still have rights. And if your son thinks he can just take over your life because it’s convenient for him. Well, he’s got another thing coming.
For the first time in 3 weeks, I felt something other than despair. I felt angry.
What do you think I should do?
Margaret smiled. And it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who’d spent 45 years fighting for people who’d been wronged.
First, we’re going to find out exactly what your son has been up to in your house. Then we’re going to remind him that his mother isn’t dead yet.
Margaret wasted no time.
The next morning, she marched me down to the nursing home’s business office like a woman on a mission. I’d barely had my coffee, but she was already dressed and ready, that thick file folder tucked under her arm.
We need to use your computer, she told the receptionist, a young woman named Jessica, who looked startled by Margaret’s authoritative tone.
I’m sorry, but residents aren’t typically allowed to.
We’re not typical residents, Margaret interrupted. I’m a retired attorney helping my friend with some legal matters. Surely you have some provision for residents who need to access public records.
Jessica glanced nervously at the computer, then at us, then at the supervisor’s empty office.
I suppose I could let you use it for a few minutes. But I’ll need to stay here with you.
Perfect, Margaret said, settling into the chair with the confidence of someone who’d never been told no in a courtroom.
I watched in amazement as Margaret’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Within minutes, she’d pulled up the county assessor’s website and typed in my address.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with here,” she muttered, scrolling through the information that appeared on the screen.
My heart nearly stopped when I saw the numbers.
“My house, which I’d always thought was worth around 300,000, was now assessed at $450,000.”
“$450,000?” I whispered. “How is that possible?”
Margaret was already clicking on another link.
Property values have been rising steadily in your neighborhood, Bula. Look at this.
Houses on your street have been selling for even more than the assessed value.
She pulled up recent sales records. The house three doors down from mine had sold 6 months ago for 500,000. Another house on my block had gone for 475,000 just last month.
Your son stands to inherit a very valuable piece of property, Margaret said grimly. much more valuable than you realized.
Jessica, who’d been pretending not to listen, leaned forward slightly.
Wow, that’s a lot of money for a house.
It certainly is, Margaret agreed.
Jessica, would you mind printing this information for us?
While Jessica printed the property records, Margaret continued typing.
Now, let’s see what else we can find. Bula, you said your son has been living in your house for 3 weeks now.
That’s right. Since the day they moved me in here.
Margaret pulled up the local newspaper website and searched for something. After a few minutes, she found what she was looking for in the classified ads section.
Room for rent, she read aloud. Beautiful three-bedroom house, large yard, quiet neighborhood, $2,000 per month, plus utilities.
My blood ran cold.
That’s my address.
Your son is renting out rooms in your house,” Margaret said, her voice tight with controlled anger. “While you’re sitting in here eating cafeteria food and sleeping on a narrow bed.
I felt dizzy.
He can’t do that. It’s my house.
Legally, you’re absolutely right. But practically speaking, if you’re not there to stop him, and if people assume you’ve moved permanently into care, he can get away with quite a lot.”
Jessica handed us the printed pages, and Margaret studied them carefully.
Bula, I need to ask you something important. Have you given your son power of attorney?
No. Robert and I talked about it years ago, but we never got around to it.
Good. That means he has no legal authority to make decisions about your property.