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’ll need to do some research on Morrison Holdings,” Sarah said finally. “If the company is still operating under assets that were fraudulently obtained, we might be able to freeze Richard’s accounts and force him to prove legitimate ownership.”

“How long will that take?” I asked.

“A few weeks to build the case, possibly months to see any real results. In the meantime, you both need somewhere stable to live. The shelter isn’t a long-term solution.”

That evening, back at the shelter, Blaine and I huddled together in the common room, making plans. My small savings were dwindling fast. Coffee and meals added up quickly when you were buying everything from restaurants. And we needed to find a more permanent arrangement soon.

“I know a place,” Blaine said hesitantly. “It’s not much, but there’s a boarding house about 15 minutes from here. The landlord, Mrs. Patterson, she’s understanding about people in difficult circumstances. I stayed there for a few months two years ago when I was trying to get sober.”

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