I ignored her and called the deputies.
When they arrived, one asked who owned the property.
“I do,” I said.
Tiffany laughed softly. “She gets confused.”
I showed him my driver’s license, my property-tax records, and the digital copy of my deed.
He turned to Tiffany. “Do you have any document giving you authority to occupy this property?”
For the first time since I walked in, her confidence slipped.
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a gray folder.
“There.”
He opened it. His eyes moved across the first page.
Then he looked at me.
I stepped closer and my stomach tightened.
At the top were my name and Jason’s.
Below them were the words: Durable Power of Attorney.
And at the bottom was what looked exactly like my signature.
“I never signed this,” I said.
Silence filled the room.
Tiffany smiled at the deputy.
“She forgets things. She’s been having memory problems for months.”
Her mother nodded. “It’s been getting worse.”
And in that moment I understood what this really was.
They weren’t just trying to take my house.
They were trying to create a version of me who couldn’t be trusted to speak for herself.
A forgetful widow. A confused old woman.
And my blood ran cold when I remembered the other house.
The three-story beach house I still own outright. The one Jason doesn’t even know I have.
The one Tiffany had asked about twice in the last month.
“Is that place still in the family?”
“Did you ever put Jason on the deed?”
I had told her it was none of her business.
