…your father’s farmland. All four hundred acres.”
My father had left me the family farm when he died three years ago. It had been in our family for five generations. It was in my name only. My husband, Greg, had never shown any interest in it, except to ask once whether I’d ever consider selling.
My attorney showed me what had already been filed. A quitclaim deed for our vacation cabin. A power of attorney naming Greg as my agent for “real estate matters.” And a draft purchase agreement between Greg’s brother, Tony, and a solar energy company, for my father’s farm. The sale price was four point two million dollars.
Every document had my signature. I hadn’t signed any of them.
“He’s been collecting your real signatures on things like birthday cards and permission slips,” my attorney said. “Then tracing them. The birthday card last night was supposed to be the last one he needed: the notarized transfer of the cabin.”
It turned out Tony owed money to some very unpleasant people. Greg had agreed to help him. The plan was to transfer my property to Tony, sell it, pay his debts and split the rest. If I ever found out, Greg would say I’d agreed to it and forgotten.
My attorney filed emergency motions that afternoon to freeze every transfer and void the power of attorney. He reported the forged documents to the district attorney.
Then I went home. Greg was waiting in the kitchen. He started yelling the moment I walked in — that I’d embarrassed him, that it was “for the family,” that I didn’t understand business.
I let him finish. Then I told him I’d understood perfectly, and that a sheriff’s deputy would be by later with divorce papers. Real ones, with his real signature required.
Greg and Tony were both charged with forgery and attempted fraud. The solar company cooperated fully with investigators.
I kept the cabin and the farm. I lease part of the land to a young family who raise organic vegetables now. On my birthday, the kids made me a card. I read every word twice before I signed my name on the cake.
