At sixty-two, I had spent thirty-five years in the same house, so I knew every sound it made. But one Thursday morning, I noticed something that made my hands shake: a bright red SOLD sign planted in my front yard. I had never listed my home, signed a contract, or spoken to an agent. Before I could understand what was happening, my son Dominic arrived with his wife, Amber, and two suitcases. They calmly explained that my house had been sold for $250,000 and that they had already arranged somewhere for me to live.

I was being sent to Sunset Manor, a senior residence, while Dominic and Amber were leaving for a three-month European vacation. When I demanded to know how they could sell my house without permission, Dominic reminded me of the power of attorney I’d signed while my husband was dying. He claimed it gave him control over my finances. But as I looked at the document he handed me, something felt terribly wrong. And then I remembered exactly what I had signed.