…recorded a deed transferring it into his own name. With my signature on it. A signature I never wrote.
My attorney, Frank, has known me for thirty years. He called me himself, which he never does. “Ed,” he said, “I need you to sit down. This deed was filed in October. It was notarized in a town you’ve never been to. Whoever signed it for you had very good practice.”
My son had forged my name to take my farm before I’d even given it to him. Then he and his wife’s parents had used it as collateral for the $600,000 loan. Christmas dinner, I realized, hadn’t been a family dinner at all. It had been a celebration.
Frank laid out my options. I could report the forgery to the police, and my son would almost certainly be charged with a felony. Or I could file a civil action to void the deed, which would take longer but wouldn’t send my only son to prison.
I thought about it all night. My late wife and I had built that farm together. She used to say our son would grow into it.
In the morning, I called my son. I told him what Frank had found, and I told him what I’d decided. He would sign a new deed returning the property to me, voluntarily, that week. He would tell his wife’s parents the truth about where their collateral had come from. And he would pay back every dollar of Frank’s fees.
“If any of that doesn’t happen,” I said, “Frank calls the police on Monday.”
He signed on Thursday. His wife’s parents pulled out of the loan the same day. I heard they were not gentle about it.
The farm is in a trust now, with Frank as trustee. It will go to my granddaughter, who is nine, when she turns thirty. She doesn’t know it yet. She came out to visit last summer, on her own, and spent the whole week following me around the barn asking questions.
On her last night, she asked why I never come to Christmas anymore. I told her I eat Christmas dinner at my neighbor’s now, at a big table, with a seat that’s always saved for me.
“Can I come next year?” she asked.
I told her she could. I’ll save her a seat right next to mine.
