“Maybe not. You’re different. Most people who end up here are broken when they arrive. You look mad.”
“I am mad.”
“Good. Angry people cause trouble. This place could use some trouble.”
Over the next few days, Dorothy became my guide to life at Sunset Manor.
She showed me which aids would sneak you extra dessert and which ones would report you for the smallest infractions.
She explained the unspoken hierarchy among residents, the politics of seating arrangements, the best times to use the phone in the lobby for private calls.
“The trick,” she told me as we sat in the small garden behind the building, “is to make them think you’re adjusting while you figure out your real plan, whatever that might be.”
I was beginning to understand that Dorothy was sharper than she let on.
She’d been here for 2 years, ever since her daughter moved to Arizona, and decided long-distance caregiving was too inconvenient.
But unlike most of the other residents, Dorothy hadn’t given up.
She was biting her time, waiting for something.
“What’s your story?” she asked me directly.
So, I told her about Dominic, about Amber, about waking up to find my life sold out from under me.
Dorothy listened without interrupting, nodding occasionally.
“Your son forged papers,” she said when I finished. “Has to be. Power of attorney for medical decisions doesn’t cover real estate transactions. I should know. I was a parillegal for 30 years before my arthritis got too bad.”
My suspicions confirmed.
“What can I do about it?”
“Depends how smart you are and how much fight you’ve got left.”
I thought about my empty room upstairs. About Dominic and Amber probably sipping wine in some French cafe right now, spending my money on their dream vacation while I ate institutional food and followed someone else’s schedule.
“I’ve got plenty of both.”
Dorothy smiled.
The first genuine smile I’d seen since arriving at Sunset Manor.
“Good, because I think it’s time someone taught your son that stealing from old ladies isn’t as easy as he thinks.”
That night, I made my second phone call from the lobby.
The first had been to my bank, confirming that my separate accounts were still intact and inaccessible to Dominic.
This call was to a lawyer.
As I dialed the number Dorothy had given me, I caught sight of my reflection in the lobby’s mirror.
I didn’t look like a defeated old woman anymore.
I looked like someone with a plan, and I did have a plan.
It was going to take patience, and it was going to require letting Dominic think he’d won a little while longer.
But when I was finished, my son was going to learn that the woman who’d raised him was far more formidable than he’d ever imagined.
The phone rang twice before a voice answered.
“Peterson and Associates, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with someone about elder abuse,” I said quietly. “Specifically, about getting my stolen house back.”
The law office of Peterson and Associates occupied the third floor of a downtown building that had seen better days.
But Margaret Peterson herself was everything Dorothy had promised. Sharp, experienced, and most importantly, angry on behalf of clients like me.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” she said, reviewing the documents I’d managed to obtain copies of. “What your son did isn’t just morally reprehensible, it’s criminal fraud.”
I sat across from her desk, Dorothy beside me for moral support.
Getting out of Sunset Manor for this appointment had required lying to the staff about a doctor’s visit, but Dorothy had coached me through it.
The nursing home operated on the assumption that residents were too adultled or defeated to cause trouble.
They didn’t pay much attention to where we went during the day as long as we showed up for evening medications.
“The power of attorney you signed,” Margaret continued, pulling out a magnifying glass to examine the signature, “was clearly altered after the fact. Look here. The ink density is different. The paper has been tampered with, and the notoriization is questionable at best.”
She leaned back in her chair, her expression grim.
“Your son took a limited medical power of attorney and modified it to appear as though you’d granted him broad financial authority. Then he used that fraudulent document to sell your house without your knowledge or consent.”
“Can we get the house back?”
“Absolutely. The sale is void. You can’t legally transfer property based on forged documents. But there’s a complication.”
My heart sank.
“What kind of complication?”
“The buyers are innocent third parties. They purchased the house in good faith, believing your son had the legal right to sell it. While we can absolutely reverse the sale and get your house back, it’s going to take time. Meanwhile, they’ve moved in and started making improvements.”
“How much time?”
“3 to 6 months, assuming your son doesn’t fight us. If he does…” She shrugged. “Could be longer.”
3 to 6 months.
I thought about the institutional meals, the shared bathroom, the constant smell of disinfectant and defeat.
Then I thought about Dominic and Amber toasting their good fortune in some European hotel, probably already planning how to spend the rest of what they thought was their inheritance.
“There’s something else,” Margaret said carefully. “The sale price concerns me. 250,000 for a house in your neighborhood. I looked up recent comparables and similar properties have been selling for closer to 400,000.”
“Either your son was in a tremendous hurry to close the deal or—”
“Or what?”
“Or there was some kind of arrangement between him and the buyers, a below market sale that benefited someone other than you.”
I felt a cold fury building in my chest.
Not only had Dominic stolen my house, he’d sold it for far less than it was worth.
Either through incompetence or corruption, he’d cheated me out of an additional $150,000.
“What do you recommend?” I asked.
Margaret pulled out a legal pad and started making notes.
“First, we file criminal charges for fraud and elder abuse. The district attorney’s office takes these cases seriously, especially when there’s clear evidence of document forgery.
“Second, we file a civil suit to reverse the sale and recover damages.
“Third, we freeze any accounts your son might have access to to prevent him from spending or hiding the proceeds.”
“He’s in Europe right now spending the money.”
“Even better. Financial records will show exactly how he used the funds from your house sale. If he’s been living it up in five-star hotels and expensive restaurants while claiming he was acting in your best interests, that strengthens our case considerably.”
Dorothy reached over and squeezed my hand.
“This is going to work, Vera.”
But I was thinking beyond just getting my house back.
Dominic had humiliated me, had treated me like a confused old woman who could be easily disposed of.
He dumped me in a nursing home and flown off to Europe without a second thought.
Legal action would get my property back, but it wouldn’t teach him the lesson he really needed to learn.
“Margaret,” I said slowly. “How long before Dominic knows we’re taking legal action?”
“We’ll need to serve him with papers, so he’ll know as soon as he gets back from Europe. Why? When is he supposed to return?”
I thought back to that horrible morning when they’d torn my life apart.
Amber had mentioned a 3-month trip.
It had been 2 weeks since they left, about 10 weeks from now.
“Perfect,” I said, an idea beginning to form. “I want to wait to serve him until he’s back in the country. Let him enjoy his vacation. Let him spend every penny he thinks he’s stolen from me. And in the meantime, I’d like to make some arrangements of my own.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow.