…dead. He said he was clearing out his late mother’s house.”
The mover held up a framed photograph he’d taken off my piano. It was me at my sixtieth birthday. My son, Brian, had told the moving company I’d died two weeks earlier.
Brian came out of the house carrying a box of my books. He saw me standing on the lawn on crutches and dropped it.
The taxi driver, Sam, didn’t hesitate. He called the police.
It all came out within an hour. Brian had sold my piano, my furniture and my jewelry to dealers that week. He’d also arranged to list my house for sale using a fake death certificate he’d bought online. The woman Sam had driven there the day before was a real estate agent coming to photograph the “estate.” He’d told everyone I’d died after surgery.
He’d texted me “Get an Uber” because he needed me away from the hospital and away from home for one more day.
The police arrested Brian on my front lawn. The movers put every single piece of furniture back inside my house for free. One of them, a young man named Carlos, carried my piano back in by himself and tuned it for me the next week. He refused to take money.
Brian was charged with fraud, forgery and theft. The real estate agent cooperated with investigators.
Sam checks on me every Sunday. He brings groceries and sits on my porch for an hour. Last month, I invited him to dinner. He brought his wife. I played the piano for them. I’m alive, my house is still mine and my door is still blue. I repainted it myself.
