“Do you really think they’ll go through with it?” I asked.
“Based on the recording and the pattern, yes. People like this don’t stop. They’ve invested too much time, built too much of a plan. They’ll push until they either succeed or get caught.”
“What happens to Andrew if they’re caught?”
Brooks’s expression softened.
“That depends on his level of involvement. If he’s been manipulated by his wife, that’s different than if he’s an active participant. The recording suggests he has doubts. That could work in his favor.”
Rachel helped me prepare my house.
We set up a small camera in the living room, hidden in a bookshelf—perfectly legal since it was my home. We tested the audio equipment. We made sure everything would be documented.
On a Wednesday morning, I called Diane.
“I’ve made my decision,” I said, letting my voice shake slightly. “You’re right. This house is too much. I’d like to discuss the plan.”
“Oh, Mom Ava, I’m so glad,” Diane’s voice was triumphant.
“When can we come over?”
“Saturday afternoon. 2:00. I’d feel more comfortable in my own home.”
“Of course,” she said. “We’ll bring Marcus and the notary. We can handle everything at once.”
After I hung up, I sat at my kitchen table and let myself cry—real tears this time.
Because part of me still hoped I was wrong.
Still hoped Andrew would stop this.
But I knew better now.
Friday night, Rachel stayed over. We didn’t talk much. We just sat together—two old friends who’d been through divorces, deaths, and now this.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” Rachel said, “I’m proud of you. You’re not going down without a fight.”
Saturday dawned clear and bright—rare for Seattle in spring.
I dressed carefully—simple clothes, a little makeup. I wanted to look like myself, not like someone incompetent who needed managing.
At 1:30, Hayes arrived.
Then Brooks.
They positioned themselves in the kitchen, out of sight but close enough to hear everything.
At exactly 2:00, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door.
Andrew stood there with Diane and Marcus.
Behind them was another man carrying a briefcase.
“Mom,” Andrew tried to smile. He looked tired.
“Come in,” I said. “All of you.”
They filed into my living room. The space suddenly felt smaller with all of them there.
Diane introduced the fourth man.
“This is Paul Norton. He’s a mobile notary. We thought it would be easier to have him here so we can finalize everything today.”
Paul was thin with a sparse mustache and nervous hands. His eyes darted around my home like he was appraising it.
“Mrs. Morrison, pleasure to meet you.” His handshake was damp. “I’m prepared to notarize any documents you need today.”
They settled onto my couch and chairs.
Marcus opened his briefcase with a flourish, like a magician about to perform a trick.
“Before we begin,” I said carefully, “I’d like to record this meeting for my own records. Is everyone comfortable with that?”
A pause.
Diane’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Of course,” Marcus said smoothly. “Transparency is important in these matters.”
I set my phone on the coffee table, pressed record, and sat in my armchair—James’ old chair.
It felt like armor.
“Mrs. Morrison,” Marcus began, “I’m so pleased you’ve decided to move forward with this sensible plan. I’ve brought all the documents we discussed. Once signed and notarized, we can begin the process immediately.”
He spread papers across my coffee table—power of attorney, asset management agreements, the application for Evergreen Senior Living, complete with a check for a $10,000 deposit.
“Who wrote that check?” I asked.
“We did,” Diane said. “We wanted to secure your spot. You can reimburse us once the house sells.”
They’d already spent money. Already committed.
They weren’t going to walk away easily.
“Let’s review each document,” Marcus said, picking up the power of attorney. “This gives Andrew and Diane the legal authority to manage your finances and make decisions on your behalf. It’s quite standard.”
“All my finances?”
“Yes. Bank accounts, investments, property decisions. It ensures that if you become unable to make decisions, everything is handled smoothly.”
“What if I change my mind later?”
Marcus’ smile tightened.
“Well, once you sign, it’s legally binding. Of course, you could revoke it, but that would require legal proceedings. It’s really designed to be permanent—for your protection.”
For my protection.
Everything was for my protection.
“And this document,” I picked up another paper.
“That’s the listing agreement for your house,” Diane said. “My friend Jennifer is a top real estate agent. She can get you top dollar. We’ve already discussed the marketing strategy.”
“You discussed selling my house without me.”
“We were just being prepared,” Andrew said quickly. “We wanted everything ready so you wouldn’t have to worry about details.”
I looked at my son—really looked at him.
His eyes wouldn’t meet mine.
“Andrew, do you think I can’t manage my own affairs?”
“Mom, it’s not that—”
“Because this power of attorney says I’m incompetent. It says I need other people to control my life.”
“No one said incompetent,” Marcus interrupted.
“But, Mrs. Morrison, at 69, facing the challenges of aging alone, it’s simply wise to have safeguards.”
Paul the notary cleared his throat.
“Ma’am, I should mention that I need to verify you’re signing these documents of your own free will and that you understand what you’re signing.”
“Of course she does,” Diane snapped—then caught herself and softened her tone. “Mom Ava just needs time to read everything carefully.”
I picked up each document, reading slowly.
The power of attorney was comprehensive. It gave Andrew and Diane control over everything—my bank accounts, my house, my medical decisions, my entire life.
The asset management agreement with Marcus’ firm included fees that would drain thousands from any investments annually.
The Evergreen application had a clause that made it nearly impossible to leave once admitted.
I’d be locked in.
“These documents are very thorough,” I said.
“We wanted to make sure everything was covered,” Marcus said.
“Elder law can be complex. It’s better to have everything spelled out clearly.”
“What happens if I don’t sign?”
Silence—heavy and thick.
“Why wouldn’t you sign?” Diane asked, her voice taking on an edge. “We’ve spent weeks planning this. We’ve secured your spot at Evergreen. We’ve done all this work to help you.”
“I just want to understand my options.”
“Your options are to accept help or to continue struggling alone,” Diane said, dropping the pretense of sweetness. “Do you really want to stay in this big house by yourself? What if you fall? What if you forget to pay a bill? What if—”
“What if I’m fine?” I interrupted. “What if I’m perfectly capable of managing my own life?”
“Mom,” Andrew tried again. “We’re not saying you’re not capable now, but things change. People get older. We just want to be prepared.”
Prepared to take everything from me.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Marcus jumped in, his professional mask slipping slightly.
“Mrs. Morrison, I think you’re misunderstanding the situation. This is a gift your son and daughter-in-law are offering. They’re willing to take on the burden of managing your affairs.”
“Burden?” I repeated. “Managing my affairs is a burden.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Let me ask you something, Marcus. What’s your commission on managing my assets?”
His face tightened.
“That’s confidential client information.”
“Is it 2% annually? 3%? How much do you make if I sign these papers?”
“My fees are competitive and standard for—”
“How much?”
“2.5% of assets under management,” he said stiffly.
“So if I have, say, $600,000, you’d make $15,000 a year. For how long?”
“For as long as you need professional management—which would be the rest of your life according to these documents.”
Diane stood up, her composure cracking.
“What is this? Why are you interrogating us? We’re trying to help you.”
“Are you?” I stayed seated, calm. “Or are you trying to steal from me?”
“Steal?” Andrew’s voice was shocked. “Mom, how can you say that? We’re family.”
“Family doesn’t pressure family into signing away their independence.”
“We’re not pressuring—” Diane started.
“You’ve called me every other day. You’ve sent urgent emails. You wrote a $10,000 check without my permission. You brought a notary to my house. If this isn’t pressure, what is?”
Paul the notary shifted uncomfortably.
“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmured. “Let everyone calm down.”
“I’m perfectly calm,” I said. “In fact, I’ve never been clearer about anything in my life.”
Marcus tried one more time.
“Mrs. Morrison, you’re obviously feeling emotional. Why don’t we schedule another meeting? Give you time to think without the pressure of—”
“I’ve had plenty of time to think.” I stood up now, facing all of them. “I’ve thought about how I was treated at the wedding. How I was ignored and dismissed. How my own son hasn’t called me in weeks unless it was to push this plan.”
“Mom,” Andrew’s voice broke.
“I’ve thought about how you showed up at my door with papers already filled out, with a notary ready, with a check already written. You didn’t want to help me. You wanted to control me.”
“That’s not fair,” Diane said coldly. “Everything we’ve done has been for your benefit.”
My benefit—or yours.
She said nothing.
“Did you know,” I said conversationally, “that elder financial abuse is one of the fastest growing crimes in America? That most of it happens within families—that children convince themselves they’re helping while they’re actually stealing?”
“I’ve done research, too.”
Marcus snapped his briefcase shut.
“I think this meeting is over. Mrs. Morrison, you’re clearly not in a frame of mind to make rational decisions. Perhaps we should discuss other options.”
“Other options?” I asked. “You mean conservatorship—having me declared incompetent?”
The silence was deafening.
“That’s what you discussed at the condo, isn’t it? When I was in the bathroom. Plan B if I didn’t sign. Petition the court. Build a case that I’m declining. Have me declared unable to manage my affairs.”
Andrew went white.
“You… you heard that?”
“I heard everything.” I turned to Diane. “You were spying on us,” she snapped.
“I was protecting myself, and thank God I did.” I picked up my phone, stopped the recording, and called out, “Mr. Hayes? Mr. Brooks? Could you come in here, please?”
Robert Hayes walked in from the kitchen, followed by Daniel Brooks.
The color drained from Diane’s face.
“What is this?” Marcus demanded.
“I’m Robert Hayes, Mrs. Morrison’s attorney,” Hayes said, his voice like ice. “And this is Daniel Brooks, investigator with the King County Prosecutor’s Elder Abuse Unit.”
Brooks pulled out his badge and camera.
“For the record, I’m documenting this meeting as part of an ongoing investigation into potential elder financial abuse.”
Paul the notary stood up so fast he knocked over his briefcase.
“I didn’t know anything about this. I’m just a notary. I was hired to—”
“Sit down, Mr. Norton,” Brooks said firmly. “We’ll need to ask you some questions.”
“This is insane,” Diane said, but her voice shook. “We’re family. We were helping—”
“Helping?” Hayes picked up the power of attorney document. “This document gives you complete control over Mrs. Morrison’s assets. The language here is unusually broad—almost as if it was designed to prevent her from regaining control.”
“That’s standard legal language,” Marcus protested.
“I’ve practiced elder law for 30 years,” Hayes said. “This is not standard. This is predatory.”
Hayes picked up another document.
“And this asset management agreement—2.5% annually, with a clause that makes it extremely difficult to terminate, plus hidden fees that would drain thousands more.”
“My firm’s fee structure is competitive—”
“Your firm has been flagged by the Washington State Securities Division for aggressive sales tactics targeting seniors,” Brooks interrupted. “We’ve been investigating you for 6 months, Mr. Webb.”
Marcus’s face went pale.
Brooks turned to Diane.
“Ms. Sterling—or should I say Mrs. Morrison now—we’ve done some research on you, too.” He pulled out a folder. “Three previous relationships with men who had elderly parents with assets. Three cases where those elderly parents were pressured to change estate plans or transfer assets. All settled quietly out of court.”
Andrew grabbed the folder, his hands shaking as he read.
“Diane, what is this?”
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “Those were misunderstandings. Families being greedy and—”
“It’s a pattern,” Brooks said. “You target men with aging parents. You isolate the parent, undermine their confidence, then move in for the assets.”
“That’s not true.”
“Would you like to hear the recording from the condo 2 weeks ago,” Hayes asked, “where you discussed having Mrs. Morrison declared incompetent—where you outlined plan B?”
He pressed play.
Diane’s voice filled the room.
“Then we go to plan B. We petition for conservatorship. We show the court she can’t manage her own affairs.”
Andrew dropped the folder.
“Oh my god.”
The recording continued.
“She will be once we document it properly. Missed appointments, confusion about finances, erratic behavior. It’s not that hard to build a case.”
“She’s not declining,” Andrew’s recorded voice protested weakly.
“She will be once we document it properly.”
Hayes stopped the recording.
The silence was crushing.
Andrew looked at Diane like he’d never seen her before.
“You were going to have my mother declared incompetent. You were going to… to fabricate evidence.”
“Andrew, you don’t understand. I was just—”
“Just what?” I said. “Just stealing? Just destroying my life?”
“We need that money!” Diane exploded. “Do you know how much debt I have? Do you know what it costs to maintain our lifestyle? Your mother is sitting on hundreds of thousands of dollars doing nothing with it. She’s going to die alone in this dump of a house, and for what?”
The mask was completely off now.
The cold, calculating predator stood revealed.
“I worked for this,” Diane continued, her voice venomous. “I spent months pretending to like you, pretending to want this boring life in Seattle, playing the devoted wife. I earned that money.”
“You earned nothing,” I said quietly. “You lied. You manipulated. You tried to steal.”
Diane turned on me, all pretense of respect gone.
“You sanctimonious old woman. Do you know how pathetic you are—clinging to this house, to your memories, to your precious independence? You’re going to die alone, and everything you’re hoarding will be wasted.”
“That’s enough,” Brooks said. “Ms. Sterling, I’m advising you that anything you say can and will be used in legal proceedings.”
She laughed—a harsh sound.
“Legal proceedings for what? I haven’t done anything illegal. I suggested a retirement home. I tried to help with financial planning. That’s not a crime.”
“Conspiracy to commit elder abuse,” Brooks said. “Fraudulent misrepresentation to obtain power of attorney is attempted theft through undue influence.”
Marcus tried to leave.
Brooks stepped in front of the door.
“Mr. Webb, we need to discuss your role in this. Did you know about Ms. Sterling’s history?”
“I—I was just providing financial advice. Standard services. If she misled me about her intentions—”
“You brought pre-filled documents to pressure a senior citizen into immediate signing,” Hayes said. “You created artificial urgency. You stood to profit significantly. That’s not standard service. That’s exploitation.”
Paul the notary spoke up, his voice trembling.
“I want to cooperate fully. I was hired by Ms. Sterling. She told me this was a simple estate signing. I didn’t know about any of this.”
“We’ll need a full statement,” Brooks said.
Andrew had been silent, staring at Diane.
Now he spoke, his voice hollow.
“Who are you?”
“I’m someone who’s tired of being poor,” Diane spat. “Someone who’s tired of pretending.”
“You want to know the truth, Andrew? I never loved you. I researched you. I found out your mother was a widow—that there had to be assets—that you were weak enough to manipulate.”
Each word was a knife.
“I played you perfectly. The networking event where we met—I engineered it. Our chance encounters—planned. Every single moment of our relationship was a calculated move toward this house, this money.”
Andrew’s face crumbled.
“But we’re married—”
“Where?” Diane sneered. “You thought I actually wanted to spend my life with an ordinary software engineer in boring Seattle? I have ambitions, Andrew. Real ambitions, not your small pathetic dreams.”
“That’s enough,” I said, standing. “You need to leave my house now.”
Diane grabbed her purse, her face twisted with rage.
“Fine. Keep your pathetic house. Keep your pathetic life. Die alone in this museum of mediocrity. I hope it’s worth it.”
She stormed toward the door, then turned back one last time.
“You’ll regret this, all of you. I’ll sue for spousal support. I’ll tell everyone you’re all crazy. I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” Hayes said calmly. “Because if you pursue any legal action, we’ll file criminal charges—elder abuse, fraud, conspiracy—and you’ll face jail time.”
“So you’ll take the annulment we’re offering, sign a non-disclosure agreement, and disappear. Those are your options.”
Diane looked like she wanted to say more, but Brooks opened the door pointedly.
She left, her high heels clicking on my walkway one last time.
Marcus followed, muttering about his lawyer.
Paul the notary stayed to give his statement, apologizing profusely.
When they were gone, I looked at my son.
Andrew stood in the middle of my living room, tears streaming down his face. He looked lost—broken.
“Mom, I—”
He couldn’t finish.
I wanted to hold him. I wanted to comfort him like I did when he was little.
But I also wanted him to feel this pain—to understand what he’d almost done.
“Why, Andrew?” I asked. “Why didn’t you protect me?”
“I thought… I thought I was helping.” He sobbed. “Diane said you were struggling, that you were too proud to ask for help, that we needed to be firm because otherwise you’d refuse out of stubbornness.”
“And you believed her over me—over 32 years of me being your mother.”
“I’m so sorry.” His voice broke. “I don’t know what happened to me. She just… she made everything sound so reasonable, and I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe I’d found someone who understood me, who loved me, who wanted to build a life together.”
“She played you,” Hayes said, not unkindly. “She’s done this before. She’s very good at it.”
“I almost destroyed you,” Andrew said to me. “I almost let her take everything from you. What kind of son does that?”
The question hung in the air.
Brooks finished his notes and prepared to leave.
“Mrs. Morrison, we’ll need you to come in and give a formal statement. We’re building a case not just against Ms. Sterling, but against Marcus Webb’s firm. Your evidence might help other victims.”
“I’ll do whatever helps,” I said.
After Brooks left, Hayes gathered his papers.
“Mrs. Morrison, you should know this isn’t over. Diane will likely try to salvage something from the marriage. Andrew, you’ll need your own attorney for the divorce proceedings.”
“Annulment,” Andrew said quietly. “It was all fraud. Our entire relationship was fraud.”
Hayes nodded.
“That’s the angle we’ll pursue, but it won’t be quick or easy.”
After Hayes left, it was just me, Andrew, and Rachel—who’d been silent in the corner throughout everything.
Andrew collapsed onto my couch.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything I thought was real…”
I sat beside him. Not too close. Not yet.
“You’re still my son,” I said finally. “You made terrible choices. You hurt me deeply. You nearly destroyed my life. But you’re still my son.”
“How can you forgive me?”
“I didn’t say I forgave you. I said you’re still my son. Forgiveness—that takes time, and it takes action, not just words.”
He nodded, understanding.
“Where will you stay?” Rachel asked practically.
“Hotel, I guess. I can’t go back to the condo. I can’t… I can’t see her.”
“There’s the guest room upstairs,” I heard myself say. “Just for a few days—until you figure things out.”
Andrew looked at me, hope and shame warring in his eyes.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But you’re my son, and right now you need your mother.”
He hugged me then, and I let him.
He cried into my shoulder like he did when he was little and had fallen off his bike.
But this time, the wounds were so much deeper, and I knew they’d take much longer to heal.
The first three days after the confrontation were strange and silent.
Andrew stayed in the guest room—my old sewing room that still smelled faintly of lavender sachets. He barely came out except for meals.
I’d hear him on the phone sometimes—talking to lawyers, to his boss at work, to friends—trying to explain what happened.
How do you explain that your entire marriage was a lie?
Rachel came by every morning with coffee and practical advice.
“He needs time to process,” she said on day three, sitting at my kitchen table. “His whole world just collapsed.”
“My world collapsed too,” I said, stirring sugar into my coffee. “But I had to keep fighting.”
“You’re stronger than him. You always have been.”
I looked at the ceiling, imagining Andrew up there staring at the walls.
Part of me wanted to rush up and comfort him.
But a larger part—the part that had been hurt and betrayed—needed him to sit with what he’d done.
On day four, he came downstairs at breakfast time.
His eyes were red. His face unshaven. He looked 10 years older than he had a week ago.
“Can I make you some eggs?” I asked.
He nodded, sitting at the table where he’d eaten a thousand childhood breakfasts.
I cooked in silence—scrambled eggs with cheese the way he liked them, toast with butter and strawberry jam, orange juice in the glass with the cartoon dinosaur that had been his favorite when he was seven.
When I set the plate in front of him, he stared at it for a long moment.
“You kept the dinosaur glass,” he said, his voice rough.
“I kept everything. Your room is still your room. Your old baseball trophies are still on the shelf. Your father’s tools are still in the garage—waiting for you to need them.”
He looked up at me, tears streaming down his face.
“Why? After everything I did, why would you keep all that?”
“Because I never stopped being your mother—even when you stopped being my son.”
The words hit him like a physical blow, but they needed to be said.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a long pause. “About Dad. About what he would think of me.”
James.
My heart ached at the mention of his name.
“Your father loved you more than anything in this world,” I said carefully. “But he also believed in honor—in protecting family, not preying on them.”
“He’d be ashamed of me.”
“Yes, he would.” I didn’t soften it. Andrew needed truth right now, not comfort. “But he’d also believe you could do better. Could be better. That’s what I’m hoping for, too.”
Andrew ate slowly, like the food hurt going down.
“My lawyer says Diane’s demanding spousal support. Can you believe that? After everything, she wants me to pay her?”
“What did your lawyer say?”
“That we have a strong case for annulment based on fraud—the recordings, the investigation, her history. It all proves the marriage was entered into under false pretenses. But it’ll take months, maybe a year.”
“Are you prepared for that?” I asked.
“I don’t have a choice.” He pushed eggs around his plate. “I called work. Told them I needed some time off. They were understanding, but, Mom… I don’t know how to go back to normal life. I don’t even know what normal is anymore.”
“Normal is gone,” I said gently. “You have to build something new.”
He nodded—a lost little boy in a 32-year-old man’s body.
That afternoon, Robert Hayes called with news.
“The prosecutor’s office is moving forward with charges against Marcus Webb,” he said. “They found evidence of similar schemes with at least six other elderly clients. Your testimony will be crucial.”
“What about Diane?”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
