Chapter 2 - THE SON I KEPT RESCUING
Derek had not always treated me like an inconvenience.
That would have made the story easier.
He was my only child.
His father, Paul, died when Derek was twenty-seven after a heart attack that began in the parking lot of a hardware store and ended before I reached the hospital.
For a long time afterward, Derek became attentive in a way grief sometimes makes people.
He called every morning.
Fixed things around my house.
Took me to Thanksgiving at his apartment when I couldn't bear setting our old dining table for two.
Then he married Kelsey.
I liked her at first.
She was bright, funny and good at making a room feel livelier.
The problem was money.
Derek worked in commercial real estate leasing.
Good income.
Unpredictable commissions.
Kelsey ran a small interior-design studio that looked far more successful online than it was on paper.
They earned enough to live comfortably.
They spent enough to live spectacularly.
The first rescue was $14,000 in credit-card debt.
Derek called it a one-time mistake.
I paid half.
He paid the rest.
Then came fertility treatments they eventually abandoned.
I helped.
A lease problem at Kelsey’s studio.
I helped.
A surprise tax bill.
I helped.
Two years before my seventieth birthday, I added Derek as an authorized user on one of my premium cards because he sometimes purchased groceries or medical supplies for me after my knee replacement.
Kelsey received a supplemental card later for the same reason.
Temporary convenience.
Like so many family disasters, it became permanent through inertia.
The monthly statements climbed.
Restaurants.
Hotels.
Furniture.
A membership club.
Kelsey’s business software.
When I questioned charges, Derek said:
“I'll reimburse you.”
Sometimes he did.
Usually partially.
Then, eight months before my birthday, I fainted at church.
Dehydration.
Nothing more.
The emergency room physician discharged me the same afternoon.
Derek arrived frightened.
That fear was genuine.
So when he said:
“Mom, we need to get your paperwork organized,”
I listened.
He recommended a lawyer his friend knew.
Wills.
Medical directives.
Financial power of attorney.
Normal documents for a seventy-year-old widow.
I agreed to review them.
I did not agree to sign everything.
The proposed financial power of attorney gave Derek broad authority.
Too broad.
I told him:
“I want an independent person handling investments if I can't.”
He looked offended.
“I'm your son.”
“That doesn't make you a portfolio manager.”
“It means you should trust me.”
I did trust him.
Just not blindly.
That distinction angered him.
I declined the document.
Two months later, my bank called about a $48,000 transfer request I had not initiated.
Derek said it was an error.
Kelsey said maybe I had forgotten.
That was the first time someone suggested my memory rather than their behavior was the problem.
I started writing things down after that.
Dates.
Amounts.
Comments.
Especially comments about memory.
Especially comments about nursing homes.
May you like
By my birthday, I had filled twenty-three pages.
And Helen Grant had read every one.
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