We spent the evening sharing our stories. Maria had to set firm boundaries with a brother who was always in a “financial crisis.” Carmen had to cut ties with a daughter who only visited when she needed money. Elfriede, at eighty years old, had to change her will after overhearing her grandchildren refer to her as their “retirement plan.”
“What hurts the most,” I confessed to the group, “isn’t the money I lost. It’s the realization that I never had the love I thought I had.”
“Renate,” Elfriede said, her voice soft with the wisdom of age, “true love can’t be bought or sold. If you had to pay for it, it was never real to begin with.”
Her words were a balm for my soul. She was right. I had purchased attention, not love. I had financed an illusion. “You know what I’ve discovered?” I said to my new circle of friends. “That loneliness, when you’re surrounded by people who don’t truly love you, is far worse than being alone. At least now, when I’m by myself, I’m in good company.”
We all laughed, and raised our glasses in a toast to our collective wisdom and newfound freedom. That night, after everyone had left, I sat in my garden under a canopy of brilliant stars. For the first time in my adult life, I was completely financially independent, with no one to support but myself. And instead of feeling frightening, it felt exhilarating. I could travel. I could redecorate. I could take up old hobbies. I could invest in my own future. Freedom tasted like hope, and for the first time in years, I was eager to see what the future held.
A month passed in relative peace. I had settled into a lovely new routine. I painted, I gardened, I had lunch with my friends. I thought the worst was behind me. Then, one morning, Mr. Weber came to my house, his face grim.
“Renate,” he said, “they’ve filed a formal lawsuit for mental incompetence in family court. They are petitioning to have a legal guardian appointed for you.”
The words landed like physical blows. I knew it was a possibility, but hearing it stated so formally was terrifying. “Does this mean they can take my money?”
“If a judge were to rule that you are unable to manage your affairs, yes, he could appoint Max as your legal guardian, which would give him control over your finances.”
I sank onto my sofa, feeling the weight of the ultimate betrayal. My own son was taking me to court to have me declared insane so he could steal my money. “What evidence could they possibly have?” I asked, my voice trembling. “You’ve seen that I’m perfectly competent.”
“They have statements from three witnesses who claim you’ve behaved erratically. They’ve also submitted what they claim are unpaid medical bills and evidence that you’ve been hoarding medication.”
“But that’s all lies! I don’t have any unpaid bills! I don’t hoard medication!”
“I know, Renate. But they have fabricated evidence that appears convincing on the surface. They also have a statement from a Dr. Lehman, who states that you refused to cooperate with a psychiatric evaluation, which they are interpreting as proof of mental decline.”
The diabolical cleverness of it chilled me to the bone. They had twisted my reasonable refusal to submit to an unnecessary exam into proof that I needed one. They had used my instinct for self-preservation as evidence that I was incapable of self-care.
“Who are these three witnesses?” I asked.
Mr. Weber consulted his file. “Lena, of course. A neighbor named Mr. Davis. And someone claiming to be your pharmacist, a Mr. Green.”..
