My father stayed quiet most days, his pride damaged beyond repair. But slowly, I pieced together the fractured story—bits overheard from old voicemails, fragments muttered in sleep, documents left behind like breadcrumbs.
It hadn’t been abuse. At least, not in the way they claimed. He was demanding, maybe even cruel at times, but not violent. What he had been was a barrier—he had kept my mother from controlling the household entirely. He had fought to make decisions, to rein in the spending, to keep Paige from dropping out, to stop Julia from moving her boyfriend in. And he had failed, slowly, one argument at a time, until they finally turned on him in unity.
They smeared him. Publicly. Quietly. Ruthlessly.
He’d signed the house over to my mother “temporarily,” when his company faltered, so she could refinance it. He never got it back.
They emptied his bank account under the guise of “family debt.” He had nothing left. Now I understood why he arrived with only a coat and a paper bag of clothes.
So I started planning.
First, I took him to the DMV, got him a new ID. Then I opened a bank account in his name, but under my control. We moved quietly. A P.O. box here. A lawyer referral there.
Then came the call I needed: Julia. She didn’t realize I had begun recording.
“I mean, I did forge one of the power of attorney forms. But come on, he didn’t know what he was doing. That man hasn’t made a smart decision since 2015. Let Mom deal with the guilt.”
Click.
I sent that to the lawyer.
A week later, Diane called, demanding to know why a court summons had arrived at her house.