I felt my heart shatter. She’d gone thirty years without trying to find me, yet she hadn’t forgotten my name.
The following morning, she wanted to know why I’d remained beside her instead of leaving her alone.
“Because we don’t abandon people here when they need medical attention,” I told her.
From then on, her angry outbursts gradually stopped. She began spending time with the other residents, and some afternoons she visited my office to tell me about Brandon. She described the money she’d loaned him, the company she’d helped him establish, and the apartment she’d allowed him to use.
“I devoted my whole life to him. He’s the only son I have.”
“Did you ever have a daughter?” I asked one afternoon.
Her expression immediately turned cold.
“I had a little girl once. She died from pneumonia when she was very young. I don’t want to discuss it.”
Hearing that lie was more painful than remembering the gray gate.
Several days later, she brought me a power-of-attorney document. Brandon had told her it was necessary so he could collect her pension payments. But the document actually gave him authority to sell her apartment and carry out financial transactions involving her assets. I called an attorney I trusted, Mr. Bennett, who advised us to revoke the authorization and report the suspected fraud.
We also learned that Margaret had recently inherited a modest house and a parcel of land near Lake Tahoe. A property developer had been offering more than $50,000 for land in that area. Fortunately, that inheritance wasn’t covered by the authorization Brandon had used when selling her apartment.
Four days afterward, Brandon arrived with his wife, Vanessa, and a notary. He didn’t even bother greeting his mother with a hug.
“Sign these papers so the property can be transferred to me, Mom. I don’t have all day.”
Margaret looked over the documents.
“Not until you tell me where my apartment went.”
“I sold it. What’s the big deal? I needed the cash. Besides, I’ve already arranged a place where you can sleep and get meals.”
“But my daughter’s photographs were there…”
“Just a pile of useless garbage. Everything got thrown away. Sign the papers.”
I intervened and reminded Margaret that she was under no obligation to sign anything. Brandon turned toward me and pointed angrily.
“Keep your mouth shut. I pay you to change diapers, not interfere in my affairs.”
“You paid for a single month, not half a year,” I replied. “And your mother is entitled to make her own choices.”
With the notary watching, Margaret firmly refused to sign. Brandon struck the bedside table so hard that a drinking glass fell and shattered.
