When I arrived at my seaside house on a freezing February morning, I expected nothing more than a peaceful week by the ocean. Instead, my key stopped halfway inside the lock. Someone had changed it. A realtor’s lockbox hung from my doorknob, and an envelope from a Providence title company waited in the mailbox. Inside was a closing notice dated February fourteenth. The seller was listed as Eloise Marsh, by her attorney-in-fact, Gregory Marsh—my son.

I remembered giving Gregory power of attorney before my knee surgery the previous spring, trusting him to help only if I couldn’t manage my own affairs. Then I saw the buyer: Tamsin’s mother. Worse, the sale price was less than half what my seaside property was worth. My phone rang before I could process it. Gregory was calling, and I could hear Tamsin behind him. “Mom,” Gregory said, “don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

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