Chapter 4 - Eight Hundred and Fifty Thousand Reasons
Mason closed the distance between us.
“How much?”
His voice was low.
Harper stood near the stairs, absolutely still.
I folded the corner of my book.
“How much what?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Play games.”
I almost smiled.
For three years, my son had lived in my house, eaten my food, used my utilities, borrowed my car, and planned to manufacture dementia.
Now I was the one playing games.
“Arthur left me his farm.”
“I know.”
“And an investment account.”
“How much?”
“That’s private.”
“I’m your son.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never kept financial secrets from me.”
“That was one of my mistakes.”
His face tightened.
Harper stepped forward.
“Eleanor, nobody is trying to take anything from you.”
I looked at her.
“The kitchen camera disagrees.”
She flushed.
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“What part?”
No answer.
Mason rubbed his face.
“Fine. Harper screwed up.”
Her head snapped toward him.
“Mason.”
“But this has gotten completely out of control.”
I stared at him.
“You tried to get me to sign a power of attorney.”
“So I could help you.”
“You attempted to access my bank account.”
His face went blank.
That one landed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yesterday.”
“Mom—”
“External account. Failed authentication.”
Harper slowly turned toward him.
“You said you hadn’t touched her accounts yet.”
The room went silent.
Mason’s eyes closed.
Harper realized what she had said.
I sat back.
“Yet.”
She covered her mouth.
Mason spun toward her.
“Shut up.”
“No,” I said. “Please continue.”
He looked at me.
For the first time, the mask disappeared entirely.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve wasted your whole life.”
The words came fast now.
“You sit in this old house surrounded by junk. You drive a fifteen-year-old Toyota. You save coupons. You have no idea how money works.”
“I seem to have survived.”
“You survived. Exactly. That’s all you ever do.”
Harper stayed silent.
Mason pointed toward me.
“Uncle Arthur leaves you a fortune and what are you going to do? Sit on it? Leave it in some account until you die?”
“It’s mine.”
“I’m your only child!”
“And?”
He stared at me as if I had slapped him.
“And it should come to me eventually.”
There it was.
The belief beneath everything.
Should.
Not might.
Not could.
Should.
“You believed my money already belonged to you.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Eventually, yes.”
“And my house?”
“Yes.”
“And Arthur’s farm?”
“If you’re smart.”
I looked at him.
“I’m basically stupid, remember?”
His face drained.
Harper backed away.
Mason whispered, “You heard that.”
“Every word.”
For the first time since the confrontation began, he looked afraid.
I repeated them.
“She’s too good for her own good. Basically stupid.”
He sat down.
“Mom…”
“And then Harper asked whether it would be easier if I died.”
Harper gasped.
“I was joking.”
“Were you?”
“It was dark humor.”
“I didn’t laugh.”
Mason covered his face.
“This is insane.”
“No. It’s expensive.”
His hands dropped.
“What?”
“Your mistake.”
I stood.
“By tomorrow, you’ll receive formal notice. You’re moving out.”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know we don’t have savings.”
“I know.”
“You’re just throwing us into the street?”
“No. I’m giving you lawful notice.”
“After everything I’ve done for you?”
That nearly took my breath away.
“What have you done for me, Mason?”
He stared.
I waited.
“Name one thing.”
“I…”
“One bill.”
Silence.
“One mortgage payment.”
Nothing.
“One grocery trip you paid for.”
His jaw clenched.
“That’s not the point.”
“It became the point when you called me stupid while calculating the value of my death.”
Harper started crying again.
Real tears this time.
Not from guilt.
From fear.
“Eleanor, we don’t have anywhere to go.”
“You have parents.”
“They don’t have room.”
“Hotels.”
“We can’t afford that.”
“Then perhaps both of you should find employment.”
Mason stood so fast the chair scraped backward.
“You think you’re powerful now because you got money?”
“No.”
I looked him directly in the eye.
“I think I was powerful before. I simply didn’t use it.”
He left the room.
The next morning, things escalated.
At nine ten, a woman from county adult protective services knocked on my door.
Mason was downstairs instantly.
I knew from his expression that he had not expected me to be home.
The woman introduced herself as Carla Nguyen.
“We received a concern regarding possible cognitive decline and financial vulnerability.”
I looked at Mason.
He stared back.
Fast.
Very fast.
He had already made a report.
Carla asked whether she could speak with me privately.
“Of course.”
Mason tried to stay.
She asked him to leave.
I almost enjoyed watching that.
For forty minutes, Carla asked questions.
I answered every one.
Then I showed her Dr. Patel’s cognitive assessment.
The power-of-attorney document.
The bank report.
The camera footage.
The screenshot of Mason’s future-dated “Mom Incidents” file.
Carla stopped writing.
“Mrs. Brooks, who reported you?”
“Can you tell me?”
“Not ordinarily.”
“Let me guess.”
She didn’t need to answer.
When she left, she asked Mason to speak privately outside.
He returned twelve minutes later looking furious.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
“You made me look like some kind of predator.”
“No.”
I folded my hands.
“You managed that yourself.”
By afternoon, Mason was on the phone constantly.
Harper packed boxes.
Not because they planned to leave.
Because they were preparing something.
Victor called at four.
“Your son contacted an attorney.”
“What kind?”
“Guardianship and elder law.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is that bad?”
“It means he hasn’t stopped.”
“Can he still petition?”
“Anyone can file something.”
“And then?”
“Then evidence matters.”
I looked at the camera.
“We have evidence.”
“Yes.”
Victor hesitated.
“But I found something else.”
“What?”
“Your son has debt.”
“I know that.”
“No. More than you know.”
“How much?”
“Approximately one hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”
I gripped the phone.
“From what?”
“Credit cards, personal loans, business equipment financing.”
I sat down.
Victor continued.
“And there’s a recent private loan.”
“How recent?”
“Four months.”
“Amount?”
“Sixty thousand.”
“To whom?”
“I’m still checking.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because the repayment deadline is in three weeks.”
I closed my eyes.
Mason wasn’t merely greedy.
He was underwater.
The house wasn’t just a prize.
It was a rescue plan.
That evening, he knocked softly on my bedroom door.
This time, I opened it.
His eyes were red.
“Mom.”
I said nothing.
“I’m in trouble.”
Finally.
Truth.
He sat on the edge of the hallway bench.
“I owe money.”
“I know.”
His head jerked up.
“How?”
“I know enough.”
He looked smaller.
For one dangerous second, I felt the old instinct rise.
Fix it.
Save him.
Write the check.
Then I remembered the burner.
“How much?”
“One hundred and seventy thousand.”
“Why?”
“Things got out of control.”
“What things?”
“The photography business. Investments. Credit cards.”
“And the sixty-thousand-dollar private loan?”
His face turned white.
I had my answer.
“That one worries you most.”
He stood.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Who did you borrow from?”
He looked toward the stairs.
Then lowered his voice.
“People you don’t want to know.”
My stomach tightened.
“How soon?”
“Three weeks.”
“What happens then?”
He swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
I stared at my son.
Suddenly his rush made sense.
Power of attorney.
House sale.
Inheritance.
Guardianship.
He wasn’t planning for someday.
He needed my money now.
Then Mason said something I never expected.
May you like
“They know where you live.”
And in that moment, his greed became my danger too.
