Hope Jennifer eventually felt guilty enough to return the money. But even as I considered it, I knew it was foolish. If she’d felt capable of doing this in the first place, why would she develop a conscience later? And more importantly, why should I make this easy for her? Option two, confront her directly, demand the money back, appeal to her sense of decency and family loyalty.
But would that work? She’d already ignored my calls. She’d already proven herself capable of profound deception. What made me think she’d suddenly become reasonable? Option three, take action. Real action. Legal action. The thought frightened me. I’d never been a confrontational person. Never been involved in anything remotely legal beyond signing mortgage papers and writing a will.
The idea of lawyers, police reports, potential courtrooms made my stomach clench. Jennifer was my daughter. Could I really do that to her? But then I thought about the alternative. Letting her get away with it. Allowing myself to become a victim. Surrendering my security without a fight.
What kind of message would that send? What kind of precedent would that set? Number. No, I couldn’t do that. I walked to my home office, a converted spare bedroom where I kept my important papers, and began pulling files, bank statements from the past year, the authorization form I’d signed at the bank, my will, my pension documents.
I spread everything on the desk and started taking notes, documenting everything I could remember, dates, conversations, the timeline of Jennifer’s increasing visits, and pressure. My hand was steadier now. The fear was still there. coiled tight in my chest. But something else had joined it. Determination. By midnight, I had the beginnings of a plan.
