“I don’t know. Maybe a hotel for tonight.”
“With what money?”
The question hung in the air between us. We both knew he couldn’t afford a hotel indefinitely. We both knew this was just the beginning of his problems.
Terrence, I said softly.
“This doesn’t have to be the end. If you leave her, if you admit that this whole situation is wrong, we can work through this.”
He looked at me with tired eyes.
“She’s my wife, Mom. I can’t just abandon her.”
“She abandoned you the moment she spent your future on jewelry and spa trips.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. It’s exactly that simple.”
He climbed into his SUV without another word and drove away, leaving me standing on my front porch, feeling more alone than I had since my husband died.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I gave my statement at the police station detailing not just the assault but the entire confrontation.
The officer taking my statement, Detective Reynolds, was thorough and professional.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” she said when we were finished, “I have to ask, is this the first time your daughter-in-law has been physically aggressive with you?”
I considered the question.
“Yes, physically, but she’s been emotionally manipulative for years.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
I told her about the gradual isolation from my son, how Lennox always seemed to schedule their visits during times she knew I couldn’t make it. How she’d convinced Terrence to skip family gatherings and holidays. I explained how she’d slowly turned my son against me, making him believe that his mother was overly critical and interfering and the financial situation.
Detective Reynolds asked, “You mentioned that they sold their house and spent the money over $600,000.”
I said. “Gone in a matter of months.”
Detective Reynolds whistled low.
“That’s a lot of money to go through that quickly.”
“She has expensive tastes and no concept of living within her means.”
“And your son went along with this?”
I sighed.
“My son has been completely manipulated by this woman. He can’t see what she’s doing to him, to his future, to our family.”
That evening alone in my house, I sat at my kitchen table with a cup of tea and really thought about my situation for the first time.
Pressing charges against Lennox was just the beginning. She would be back. They would both be back. And next time they might not be so direct about their demands.
I thought about the house on Maple Street, the one I’d helped them buy. $40,000 from my retirement savings. Money I’d worked decades to accumulate. money that had essentially been flushed away along with the rest of their equity.
But then I remembered something.
When they’d bought the house, there had been paperwork, lots of paperwork. And because I’d contributed such a significant portion of the down payment, the real estate attorney had insisted on certain protections.
I went to my file cabinet and pulled out the folder labeled Terrence House Purchase. Inside were copies of all the documents from the sale, including something I’d nearly forgotten about. a promisory note.
The attorney had insisted on it when I’d given them the $40,000.
Mrs. Mitchell, he’d said at the time, “I strongly recommend that this be structured as a loan rather than a gift. It protects your interests and ensures that your son understands the gravity of accepting such a large sum.”
At the time, I’d protested.
I didn’t want to make it alone. I wanted to help my son, but Terrence himself had insisted.
Mom, I want to pay you back. This should be official.
The promisory note was clear. $40,000 to be repaid at 5% annual interest with payments beginning 1 year after the purchase date. The loan was secured by the property itself, meaning I had a legal interest in the house.
But they’d sold the house without paying me back, without even mentioning the outstanding loan.
I picked up my phone and dialed the number for James Crawford, the attorney who’d handled the original purchase.
His secretary told me he could see me the next morning.
That night, I barely slept. I kept thinking about Terrence as a little boy, how he used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms, how proud he’d been when he’d graduated from college, how he’d cried at his father’s funeral and promised he’d always take care of me.
Where had that boy gone? How had he become this man who stood silent while his wife assaulted his mother?
The next morning, I dressed carefully in my best suit and drove to James Crawford’s office.
