My son won the lottery, kicked me out of the house, and said: “You’re worthless! Go live in a nursing home.” I wandered aimlessly to clear my mind. When I sat down on a bench, a homeless man walked up to me, smiled, and said: “You look just like my late wife…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Because there wasn’t a body,” Blaine completed, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Just like there wasn’t a body for your funeral either.”

We sat in stunned silence, the magnitude of Richard’s deception washing over both of us. My son, our son, had deliberately torn apart our family with lies. He’d made each of us believe the other was dead, then used our grief to manipulate and control us.Browse Reference

“The business,” I said slowly. “Morrison Construction. What happened to it?”

Blaine’s face darkened. “Richard convinced me to sign power of attorney while I was quote too griefstricken to make rational decisions. Said he’d keep the company running until I was ready to take back control. But I never got better, Glenda. Losing you destroyed me.”

I reached out instinctively and touched his hand. It was rough and cold, but unmistakably his. “I know. Losing you nearly killed me, too.”