My son Donovan and his wife, Phaedra, walked out of a Sacramento steakhouse, leaving me with a $942 bill. They claimed their child was sick, but neither of them had bothered to ask for the check. Phaedra had chosen an expensive bottle of wine, and Donovan had laughed when she said, “Mom loves treating us.” When the server arrived, he quietly revealed that Phaedra had specifically told the hostess to put everything on one bill because “the grandmother always pays eventually.” The words stung because I knew they were true. For years, I had helped Donovan financially, covering school expenses, medical bills, repairs, and business problems without keeping score.

But that evening, the restaurant bill was no longer what frightened me. Earlier that morning, my late husband’s longtime banking adviser, Marshall Reeves, had given me paperwork concerning a home-equity credit line connected to Donovan and Phaedra’s house. Years before, I had agreed to guarantee a limited $168,000 line for repairs and business expansion. The new document claimed the amount had been increased dramatically and listed me as a joint borrower. Even worse, my signature appeared underneath it. I knew I had never signed those papers. Now, sitting beneath the restaurant’s dim lights, I picked up my phone and called the bank. After checking my account, the representative suddenly became very serious. She told me there had been another increase just weeks earlier—and then she revealed the current credit limit.