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Elena’s name on a “family expense authorization” letter sent to our accountant.
The refrigerator was empty. My wife’s hands were trembling. And upstairs, my daughter was livestreaming her new designer bag, bought with the money meant for food. “Dad won’t do anything,” Mia whispered to her boyfriend.
Forgery.
Financial exploitation.
Elder abuse, though Elena was only fifty-nine. Under state law, her medical vulnerability mattered.
On the third night, Mia hosted a party in our living room.
Music shook the walls.
