They underestimated me. My daughter and her husband had taken advantage of my love, assuming that I would fold under pressure and fear. But they misjudged my resolve and the depth of my understanding of right and wrong. As I stood on the porch, the pain subsiding to a dull throb, the clarity of the situation began to crystallize in my mind.
I needed help, and I needed it fast. My first call was to the police. The operator’s calm voice was a balm in the chaos. I explained the situation as best as I could, the fraudulent documents, the assault, and the subsequent eviction from my own house. They promised to send someone immediately, assuring me that help was on the way.
Next, I called my lawyer, Sarah. She was an old friend and someone I trusted implicitly. I didn’t sugarcoat anything—I told her about the documents, the signatures, and the unforgivable betrayal. Her voice was firm, a beacon of support in this storm. She promised to meet me at the local precinct.
