Chapter 3 - My Wife Had Already Chosen My Mother’s Nursing Home
The guardianship petition was twenty-eight pages long.
I read it in Nora's apartment while a police officer finished documenting the threat against her.
Every page made me angrier.
According to Sloane, my mother was suffering from severe cognitive decline.
She supposedly forgot medications, became verbally aggressive, wandered at night, refused basic hygiene, and made reckless financial decisions.
My wife described herself as the only family member willing to provide consistent care.
Me?
I was portrayed as an absent son.
Frequently overseas.
Unable to supervise Mom's treatment.
Financially irresponsible because I had encouraged Mom to retain an old property that was becoming a burden.
Nora was described as an untrained domestic employee who interfered with medical recommendations.
I stared at the sentence.
"Untrained?"
Nora looked confused.
"I have a certified nursing assistant credential."
"I know."
"I worked in elder care for four years before Mrs. Helen hired me."
I scrolled down.
The petition recommended immediate placement at Brookhaven Care Center, with Sloane appointed temporary guardian and financial manager.
Attached were medical letters from Dr. Blake Dorsey.
He claimed my mother had exhibited disorientation, agitation, and impaired judgment during three separate evaluations.
I called Mom's longtime neurologist the next morning.
Dr. Patricia Quinn had treated her since the stroke.
She agreed to meet me after reviewing the emergency hospital report.
Her office smelled faintly of coffee and paper.
"I haven't diagnosed your mother with dementia," she said.
I sat forward.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Could she have developed it since your last appointment?"
"Possible, but I would need an independent evaluation. I certainly wouldn't diagnose advanced dementia based on a spouse's report of irritability."
I showed her Dr. Dorsey's letter.
She read it slowly.
Then frowned.
"These medications."
"What about them?"
"Your mother's prescription records don't match what he's describing."
"Meaning?"
"She's supposed to take medications for blood pressure, cholesterol, and stroke prevention. Her latest hospital bloodwork suggests she may also have been taking a sedating medication."
My throat tightened.
"Would that make her confused?"
"It could contribute to drowsiness, poor balance, and disorientation. There are other possible explanations, and we need proper testing."
I remembered the video.
Mom looking at unfamiliar pills.
Sloane telling her the doctor changed them.
"Can you test what's in her system?"
"We can review her results and conduct a medically appropriate assessment. I'll also contact her treating team."
For the first time in two days, I felt something steadier than anger.
Facts.
Not accusations.
Not appearances.
Evidence.
I hired an elder-law attorney that afternoon.
Her name was Rebecca Sloan.
No relation to Sloane, a coincidence she immediately suggested we stop mentioning.
She reviewed the petition, the medical records, and the kitchen footage.
Then she looked at me over her glasses.
"Your wife is attempting to obtain legal authority over your mother's person and assets."
"I figured that out."
"But there's a second problem."
"What?"
She turned to a financial disclosure.
"Your mother owns a property at Willow Point."
"Yes."
"What's its current value?"
"Maybe six hundred thousand."
Rebecca slid a recent appraisal across her desk.
I stared.
The estimate exceeded four million dollars.
I laughed once.
"That can't be right."
"The county approved a new marina access route last year. Several nearby parcels increased dramatically in value."
I thought about the old house.
Dad painting the porch.
Mom making lemonade.
Me fishing from the dock when I was nine.
Four million dollars.
Sloane had known.
I hadn't.
"Who ordered the appraisal?"
Rebecca pointed.
"Sloane Bennett, through a holding company."
I felt sick.
The holding company was registered to Landon Price.
Sloane's older brother.
He developed luxury waterfront properties along the Carolina coast.
We had never been close.
I found him arrogant.
He found me insufficiently interested in making money from real estate.
Apparently he had found a way around that problem.
Rebecca continued.
"There's also a preliminary purchase agreement."
I stared.
"Who signed it?"
"Your mother, supposedly."
I shook my head.
"No."
"The signature needs verification."
"She would never sign."
"Then we challenge it."
My phone rang.
Hospital.
Mom had asked for me.
When I arrived, she was sitting upright, looking exhausted but more alert than the previous night.
"Andrew."
I sat beside her.
"Hey."
She touched my face.
"You look like you haven't slept."
"Family tradition."
She smiled weakly.
I held up a photograph of Willow Point.
"Mom, did Sloane ask you to sell Dad's place?"
The smile disappeared.
"Yes."
"Did you sign anything?"
Her hands tightened around the blanket.
"I signed a paper."
My stomach dropped.
"What paper?"
"She said it was for insurance."
"When?"
"Last month."
"Did she explain it?"
"She said you needed my help."
I closed my eyes.
Sloane had used me.
My name.
My work.
My mother's love.
"What did she say I needed?"
Mom began crying.
"She said your business was in trouble."
I froze.
My engineering company wasn't in trouble.
My project in Denmark had been our most profitable contract in three years.
"She said you were afraid to tell me," Mom continued. "She said if I didn't help, you might lose the house."
I pulled her gently into my arms.
"Mom, none of that was true."
She cried harder.
"I didn't want you to worry."
"I know."
"I tried to do what she wanted."
I couldn't speak.
For months, Sloane had made my mother believe she was helping me.
Every demand disguised as love.
Every signature framed as sacrifice.
Mom looked at me.
"Andrew?"
"Yeah?"
"Did you really want to sell Dad's place?"
"No."
She began sobbing.
I held her until the worst passed.
Then she whispered something that stopped me.
"She made me practice your name."
I pulled back.
"What?"
"Your signature."
My stomach turned.
"Why?"
"She said you'd been too busy to sign something yourself."
My phone buzzed.
Rebecca.
I answered immediately.
"Andrew, we found an additional document."
"What?"
"A power of attorney."
My breath stopped.
"Whose?"
"Your mother's."
"Giving authority to whom?"
A pause.
"Your wife."
I looked at Mom.
She watched me anxiously.
Rebecca continued.
"It's dated six weeks ago and notarized by a man named Curtis Bell."
I knew that name.
Curtis Bell worked with Landon Price.
He handled real estate closings.
Rebecca said, "Andrew, there is something else."
"What?"
"The document gives your wife broad authority to manage Helen's property, including the ability to transfer the waterfront parcel."
My mouth went dry.
"And?"
"The preliminary sale is scheduled to close next Thursday."
I looked at my mother.
She was gripping my hand with the strength she had left.
Next Thursday.
Less than a week.
Sloane wasn't merely trying to remove Mom from our house.
May you like
She was trying to sell nearly everything Mom had left.
And if I hadn't come home three days early, nobody would have known until the deed was recorded.
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