We met her at her office.
She read the expired POA, then the forged one, then the bank statements, and her expression got harder with each page — the same look I was learning to recognize on my grandmother’s face.
“Eleanor,” she said, “this is elder financial exploitation, forgery, and fraud. And the false imprisonment angle — walking you into a facility under a forged document — that’s its own serious problem for Arthur. Do you want to pursue this fully?”
Grandma didn’t hesitate.
“I want it done properly and completely,” she said. “He’s my son. I carried him and I raised him and I will love him until I die. And he tried to have me declared incompetent so he could steal my house. Both of those things are true, Margaret. I’m too old to pretend they’re not.”
Then she told us about the house.
“The house is the whole point,” she said. “The bank withdrawals — the fifty-five thousand — that’s real, and it’s bad, but it’s not the prize. The prize is the house.
