“Mom, Starting Next Month, We’ll Transfer All Your Money To My Account.” My Son Said That, And I Just Smiled. That Night, As Always, He Came With His Wife For A Free Dinner.

The lawyer looked at me with something that seemed like compassion and sadness.

“Mrs. Menddees, your son is already in legal trouble. He’s committed several felonies.

The question isn’t whether you want to get him in trouble. The question is whether you want to protect yourself.”

I left that office with a folder full of forms and a list of things I needed to do. I felt overwhelmed, but I also felt something else.

I felt determined. I went straight to the bank. I changed all my passwords.

I requested a new debit card. I closed the fraudulent credit card and filed a formal dispute. The teller at the bank helped me with everything.

She treated me with patience without making me feel stupid or weak. When I got home that afternoon, I felt exhausted, but also strangely light, as if I had shed an invisible weight I had been carrying for years. That night, Lawrence finally called.

His voice sounded tense on the phone. “Mom, we need to talk. Come over for dinner at my place tomorrow.

We have to sort this out.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. And before I would have obeyed without question.

But now, after everything I had discovered, I only felt a cold calm. “I can’t tomorrow,” I told him. “I’m busy.”

“Busy?

Mom, what can you be busy with? This is important for you.”

“Maybe,” I said. “For me, there are other more important things.”

Now, there was a silence on the other end of the line.

A silence heavy with surprise and irritation. “You’re acting very weird, Mom. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you need to stop being so stubborn and sign those papers.

This is for your own good.”

For my own good. Those words again. As if stealing from me were an act of love.

“Lawrence,” I said with a voice that came out firmer than I expected. “I’m not going to sign anything, and I think we need to have a very serious conversation about several things.”

“About what things?” he asked. His voice sounded different now, more alert, more cautious.

“about money that has left my account without my permission, about credit cards that I didn’t apply for, about utility accounts in my name at addresses where I don’t live.”

The silence that followed was absolute, so thick I could almost feel it through the phone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally said. His voice sounded controlled, but I could detect the panic underneath.

“I think you do,” I told him. “And I think you need to think very carefully about what you’re going to say next.”

“Mom, you’re delusional. You’re confused.

Maybe you need to see a doctor.”

There it was. The card I knew he would play. The card to make me seem scenile, confused, incapable.

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