…present in her office in Ohio on October 12th, at 10:15 a.m.”
On October 12th, at 10:15 a.m., I was sitting in my sister’s living room in Phoenix, watching her granddaughter’s ballet recital on a livestream. My sister had photos. The airline had my boarding pass. The hotel I’d stayed in the night before had my receipt.
The clerk wrote everything down. Then she told me something important. Because the transfer had just been filed and the sale wasn’t closed, the county could flag the property while the police investigated.
I flew home the next morning. My sister came with me.
The buyers were a young couple named Jake and Mia. They’d seen a listing online and paid a deposit to a “real estate agent” who turned out to be my daughter-in-law’s cousin. They were horrified when they learned the truth.
The notary was a friend of my daughter-in-law’s. She confessed within a day of being questioned. My son, Brian, had forged my signature on the “property tax” papers I’d refused to sign, then given them to her to notarize.
Brian and his wife, Kristen, were charged with forgery and real estate fraud. Jake and Mia got their deposit back. The “SOLD” sign went into my recycling bin.
I’m seventy-two. I’ve lived in my house for forty-one years. I raised my children there and buried my husband from there. I’m not going anywhere.
I did make one change. I put my house in a trust, with my sister and my lawyer as trustees. Nothing can happen to it now without both of them knowing. My sister keeps a copy of my calendar too, just in case anyone ever tries to say I was somewhere I wasn’t.
