We both knew he was politely referring to my brother’s impending financial implosion. The strategy was to transfer the deed into a bulletproof life estate trust for Mom upon my physical return. Until then, I was the sole proprietor. Mom wept on the porch the day the keys were handed over, immediately planting rose bushes before unpacking a single cardboard box.
But fourteen months ago, my brother’s construction firm went bankrupt. The bank swiftly foreclosed on his property. Rather than accept a quiet, interest-free loan from his little sister, Derek’s fragile pride dictated he refuse my help. Instead, he and his wife, Melissa, asked my mother for a “temporary” place to land. I enthusiastically agreed, stipulating only that Mom remained the undisputed lady of the house.
I vastly underestimated the insidious nature of entitlement. The temporary stay morphed into a permanent occupation. Melissa moved her own displaced mother, Sandra Voss, into the guest room. Then, my mother required a total knee replacement. That surgical intervention became the hinge upon which the parasites swung the door wide open.
