I’m glad you’re here with me. Please like this video and listen to my story till the end, and let me know which city you’re listening from. That way I can see how far my story has traveled.
I had always believed that family was everything. For sixty-eight years, I’d lived by that principle. I raised my son, Michael, with love and sacrifice. I worked two jobs to put him through college. And when my husband passed away five years ago, I made sure to stay close to Michael and his wife, Jennifer. I wanted to be the grandmother who baked cookies, who showed up for every soccer game, who was there when they needed me.
My small house in suburban Ohio had become quieter after Robert died, but I’d found peace in my routines. I volunteered at the library on Tuesdays, had my book club on Thursdays, and every Sunday I’d drive over to Michael’s place for family dinner. That’s what families did, wasn’t it? They stayed connected.
The first sign that something was wrong came six months ago, though I didn’t recognize it then. Michael asked me to add him to my bank account, just as an authorized user, he said, in case of emergencies.
“Mom, what if something happens to you? What if you fall and we need to access your funds for medical care?”
His concern seemed genuine, his eyes soft with worry. Jennifer nodded along, her hand on his shoulder, both of them looking at me with such apparent care. I signed the papers without hesitation. He was my son. Why wouldn’t I trust him?
The second sign came two months later. I noticed some unexpected withdrawals. Nothing massive—just two hundred here, three hundred there. When I asked Michael about it during one of our Sunday dinners, he laughed it off.
“Mom, those are the groceries I picked up for you, remember? And I paid your electric bill last month when you forgot.”
Had I forgotten? My memory wasn’t what it used to be. Maybe he was right. Jennifer placed her hand on mine then, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“We’re just taking care of you, Mom. That’s what family does.”
But the withdrawals continued. Five hundred. Eight hundred. A thousand.
Each time I brought it up, Michael had an explanation. Each time I swallowed my doubts because he was my son, and sons didn’t steal from their mothers. Did they?
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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