If she tried to withdraw more money, I’d know immediately.
Second step: gather more evidence.
I needed to understand their financial situation. Why did they need my money? Derek claimed to be successful.
They lived in an expensive house, drove nice cars. Where was all their money going?
Third step—and this was the one that made me pause, made me question if I was overreacting: investigate their finances.
Was that too far? Was I becoming paranoid?
Then I remembered Derek’s smirk.
“Running away won’t change your situation, Margaret.”
No.
I wasn’t overreacting.
I was just getting started.
Monday morning, I walked into the offices of Hendrickx & Associates, a law firm three blocks from my house. I’d made the appointment online the night before, barely sleeping. The receptionist, a young woman with kind eyes, smiled at me.
“Mrs.
Morrison, Mr. Hendrickx will see you now.”
James Hendrickx was in his fifties, with silver hair and the careful manner of someone who’d heard every family horror story imaginable. I sat across from his desk and laid out my printed bank statements.
No emotion—just facts.
That’s how I’d presented to corporate boards for 30 years.
“These transactions,” I pointed to the highlighted lines, “were not authorized. This person had access to my account as an emergency contact. She used it to withdraw $7,500 over four months.”
Hendrickx studied the documents through his reading glasses.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes. And these other transfers—the ones marked as sent—those I authorized, but they were described as loans, emergencies… none have been repaid.”
He made notes on a legal pad. “Do you have written agreements for repayment?”
“No.
It was family. I trusted them.”
“Of course.” He looked up at me. “Mrs.
Morrison, I need to be direct. Unauthorized access to accounts can constitute financial elder abuse, especially given the pattern here. However, prosecuting family members is complicated.
Most people in your situation want to resolve this privately.”
“What are my options?”
“You could file a police report. Alternatively, we could send a formal legal letter demanding repayment and threatening civil action. That often motivates people to cooperate without involving criminal charges.”
He paused.
“May I ask… do you want to maintain a relationship with your daughter?”
I thought about Rebecca at age six, showing me her first drawing. Rebecca at sixteen, crying about her first breakup. Rebecca at twenty-five introducing me to Derek, her eyes shining with hope.
Then I thought about Rebecca last night—silent as her husband called me an embarrassment.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“But I want my money back. All of it. And I want them to know that I know.”
Hendrickx nodded.
“I’ll draft a letter today. It will detail the unauthorized withdrawals, demand full repayment of $23,000 within 30 days, and threaten both civil litigation and a police report if they don’t comply.”
He looked at me seriously. “This will burn bridges, Mrs.
Morrison. There’s no going back from this.”
“Good,” I said.
The letter was sent via certified mail on Tuesday. I also requested copies of all transaction records from my bank, formally documenting Rebecca’s access dates and withdrawal patterns.
The bank officer who helped me, a middle-aged woman named Patricia, shook her head sympathetically.
“This happens more than you’d think. Adult children with access to elderly parents’ accounts.”
“I’m sixty-three, not elderly,” I said sharply.
She blushed. “I apologize.
I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” I softened my tone. “Thank you for your help.”
But her words stayed with me.
Is that how people saw me? Elderly.
Vulnerable.
Is that how Derek saw me? How Rebecca saw me?
Thursday afternoon, my phone exploded with messages.
Rebecca: “Mom, what is this? A legal letter?
How could you do this to us?”
Derek: “This is insane. Margaret, you’re going to destroy this family over money you gave us freely.”
Rebecca: “We’re coming over to talk right now.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I forwarded all the messages to Mr.
Hendrickx with a note: Please document for our records.
An hour later, someone pounded on my front door. I looked through the peephole. Rebecca and Derek stood on my porch.
Rebecca’s face blotchy with tears. Derek’s jaw clenched tight.
I didn’t open the door.
“Mom. Mom, I know you’re in there.
Open the door.” Rebecca’s voice was high, desperate.
“Margaret, be reasonable!” Derek shouted. “We can explain everything.”
I sat on my couch, watching them through the window’s sheer curtains. My phone rang continuously.
I ignored it.
After twenty minutes, they left—but Derek turned at the end of my walkway and looked directly at my window. Even from that distance, I could see the anger in his expression.
Not remorse. Not shame.
Anger.
That night, Rebecca sent a long text:
“Mom, you don’t understand.
Yes, I accessed your account a few times, but only when we were desperate. Derek’s commission checks kept getting delayed. We have a mortgage.
You always said family helps family. I was going to pay you back. And the money you sent us—those were gifts.
You can’t take back gifts.
Please, let’s talk about this like adults. This lawyer letter is crazy. People will think you’re senile, that you’re confused.
Is that what you want?”
I read it three times.
Each sentence a manipulation. Each word a justification.
No apology. No acknowledgement of theft—just excuses and threats.
I saved the text, forwarded it to Hendrickx, and blocked their numbers.
That was my point of no return.
Friday morning, I received a call from Mr.
Hendrickx.
“They’ve responded through their own attorney.”
My stomach tightened. “They hired a lawyer.”
“Derek’s family apparently has a lawyer on retainer. The response is aggressive.
They’re claiming all money was given as gifts—that you never indicated they were loans—and that the authorized account access was explicitly for Rebecca to help you manage your finances due to your advancing age and confusion.”
Heat flooded my face.
Advancing age and confusion.
I’d managed corporate portfolios for 30 years.
“I know it’s a standard defense strategy,” he continued. “They’re also threatening to file for guardianship over you, claiming you’re mentally unstable and making irrational financial decisions.”
The room spun.
Guardianship.
“It’s a threat, Mrs. Morrison.
Likely empty, but it tells us they’re scared. Scared people fight dirty.” He paused. “There’s more.
They’re alleging you promised to help them financially—that you encouraged their home purchase, knowing they’d need support—and that you’re now reneging on family commitments out of spite.”
I closed my eyes.
This was Derek’s work—the sales tactics, the spin, the reframing.
He was good at this.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“We document everything. Every email, text, call. We get character witnesses.
We show that you’re financially competent and independent, and we prepare for them to escalate.”
He was right about escalation.
Saturday morning, Derek called from a number I hadn’t blocked—his work cell. I answered without thinking.
“Margaret, we need to talk face to face.”
“I don’t think—”
“Listen to me.” His voice was hard, controlled. “You’re making a huge mistake.
You think you’re protecting yourself, but you’re destroying Rebecca. Do you know she’s been crying for three days? She’s your daughter, your only child.
Is money really worth losing her?”
“Derek, you stole from me.”
“We borrowed. There’s a difference. And you knew.
You knew about Rebecca checking the account. You said it was fine.”
“For emergencies—real emergencies. Not to fund your lifestyle while you called me poor.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “I apologized for that. I was drunk. I said things I didn’t mean.”
“You haven’t apologized.
Not once.”
“I’m apologizing now. Margaret, please. Let’s sit down, all three of us.
We’ll work out a payment plan, but you have to drop this legal threat. It’s humiliating. Rebecca’s friends know.
My colleagues know. You’re embarrassing us.”
“I’m embarrassing you?”
The laugh that came out of me sounded foreign—harsh.
“You stole $23,000, and I’m embarrassing you.”
“We didn’t steal anything.” His voice rose. “You gave us that money.
And if you try to claim otherwise, we’ll fight you. We’ll show everyone that you’re confused, that you’re making accusations because you’re lonely and bitter. Is that what you want?
You’ll end up in a care facility while we have guardianship. Think about it.”
He hung up.
I sat there, the phone trembling in my hand.
Was he right? Would people believe I was confused?
I was sixty-three, lived alone, had no other family.
Would a judge appoint them as guardians?
Could they actually take control of my life?
For the first time since this started, I felt real fear.
That afternoon, Derek and Rebecca showed up again.
This time, they had Derek’s mother with them—Linda, a woman I’d always gotten along with at family gatherings. They knocked, rang the doorbell, called through the mail slot.
“Margaret, it’s Linda. Please, let’s talk.
Family doesn’t solve problems through lawyers.”
I watched through the curtains. Linda
