Chapter 4 - I STOPPED USING FAMILY AS AN EXCUSE
Dad wanted to go home.
I said no.
Not because I thought he was incompetent.
Because Michael and Vanessa still had keys.
Dad hated the suggestion that he stay with me.
“My house is paid for.”
“I know.”
“I built that back deck myself.”
“I know.”
“I am not being evicted from my own bedroom by my son.”
“You're not. You're staying with me until we change the locks.”
He glared at me.
Then he muttered something about federal agents being tyrants.
That sounded like my father.
I took him home long enough to collect clothes and important documents.
Detective Ruiz had already told everyone not to remove or alter anything potentially relevant to the assault.
The baseball bat was gone with police.
The broken ceramic bowl Dad said he'd fallen against remained on the kitchen floor.
Michael and Vanessa were gone.
Their suitcases were gone too.
On Dad's kitchen table sat a stack of unopened mail tied with a rubber band.
Dad stared at it.
“I haven't seen some of those.”
That was the first moment I felt ashamed.
For nearly two years, Dad had told me Michael “handled the boring stuff.”
Insurance renewals.
Investment statements.
Property-tax notices.
Utilities.
Whenever I asked whether Dad wanted help, he said Michael had it.
I accepted that because Michael lived twenty minutes away and I traveled for work.
Convenient arrangements have a way of becoming invisible.
Dad's attorney arrived with the revocation documents.
Dad read each page himself.
Asked two questions.
Corrected the spelling of a brokerage firm's name.
Then signed.
Sam notarized the revocation and began delivering notice to every bank and financial institution they knew Michael had accessed.
Dad also signed a limited authorization allowing a professional fiduciary service to help organize his bills temporarily.
Not me.
That mattered.
I did not want anyone claiming I had removed Michael merely to replace him.
At 12:30, Michael called Dad.
Dad put the phone on speaker.
“Dad, you're making decisions while you're traumatized.”
Dad stared at me.
“I've been traumatized since your wife hit me with Louisville Slugger.”
“Vanessa defended herself.”
“She broke my arm.”
“You scared her.”
Dad's mouth tightened.
Then Michael said the sentence that ended any remaining doubt.
“You shouldn't sign anything until a doctor determines you're competent.”
Nobody had told him Dad had just signed the revocation.
Yet somehow that was exactly what he was afraid of.
Dad ended the call.
Ten minutes later, his bank called.
May you like
Michael had attempted to move $32,000 from Dad's money-market account that morning.
The transfer had been stopped because the revocation notice reached the bank first.
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