I Politely Asked My Daughter-in-Law Not to Smoke — My Son Slapped Me, But 15 Minutes Later

I sit at the kitchen table. The same table where I was standing yesterday when he hit me. I sip my coffee. Wait.

At exactly nine o’clock, the doorbell rings. Deacon looks up. Frowns. «Are you expecting someone?»

I set down my coffee cup. «Yes.» Sloan’s head snaps toward me. «What?»

The doorbell rings again. I stand. Walk to the door. My legs feel strong.

Stronger than they have in months. I open the door. Marcus Chen stands on the porch. Tall.

Professional. Wearing a suit that probably cost more than Deacon’s. He carries a leather briefcase. His expression is granite.

«Good morning. Loretta.» His voice is gentle when he speaks to me. Then he looks past me into the house.

His voice changes. Goes cold. Hard. «Mr. Patterson. Mrs. Patterson. My name is Marcus Chen. I’m an attorney, specializing in elder abuse cases. May I come in?»

Deacon appears behind me. His face has gone pale. «I called for help,» my voice doesn’t waver. «What you did yesterday was assault. What you’ve been doing for six months is financial exploitation and emotional abuse.»

Marcus steps inside. Uninvited. Unwanted. He sets his briefcase on the entry table.

Opens it. Pulls out a folder. «These are preliminary documents,» he says. «A cease and desist. Official notice that we’re filing an elder abuse investigation with the state. And restraining order paperwork, which we’ll be filing this afternoon.»

Sloan rushes into the hallway. She’s still in her yoga pants from yesterday. Her hair is messy. Her makeup smudged.

She looks at Marcus. At me. At Deacon. «This is insane,» she says.

«We let her live here. We’ve been taking care of her.» Marcus pulls out another document. Slides it across the table.

«These are bank records showing that Mrs. Patterson has been paying you $400 per month in household expenses. From a disability check of $1,100, leaving her with $700 for all other expenses, including medication, clothing and personal needs.»

«We have a nice house,» Sloan snaps. «It costs money to maintain. She should contribute.» «The going rate for a room rental in Columbus, Ohio is approximately $500 per month,» Marcus says.

His voice never rises. Never wavers. «That typically includes utilities. You’ve been charging her $400 for the room, plus additional fees for water, electricity and groceries.»

«Do you have receipts showing what portion of utilities she actually used?» Silence. «I didn’t think so.» Marcus pulls out more papers.

«I also have photographs. Would you like to see them?» He spreads photos across the table. The guest room. The bathroom.

The mold. The broken window lock. My medications. Receipts.

Then the photo from this morning. My face. The handprint. Purple and swollen and undeniable.

Deacon’s face goes white. Actually white. Like all the blood has drained from his body. «Mom, we can fix this,» he says.

His voice cracks. «We can talk about this. We can…» «Mr. Patterson, I strongly advise you not to speak.» Marcus gathers the photos.

Puts them back in his briefcase. «Anything you say can and will be used in court.» The doorbell rings again. Marcus smiles.

It’s not a nice smile. «That would be the other members of our team.» I walk to the door. Open it.

Rhonda Washington stands there with a camera bag and a man I don’t recognize. Behind them, a woman in a county uniform holds a clipboard. «Adult Protective Services,» the woman says. «We received a report of potential elder abuse and neglect at this address. I’m here to conduct an investigation.»

Sloan makes a sound. High pitched. Almost a scream. «This is harassment. We’ll sue. We’ll…»

«You’ll do nothing.» Marcus’s voice cuts through her panic like a knife. «Because if you interfere with an APS investigation, that’s another criminal charge. If you try to intimidate witnesses, that’s another criminal charge.»

«If you do anything except cooperate fully, I will make sure you face the maximum penalties under Ohio law.» Rhonda steps inside. She looks at me. At my face.

Her expression goes soft with sympathy, then hard with anger. «Hi, Loretta,» she says quietly, then louder, to everyone else. «I’m Rhonda Washington, investigative journalist. I’ll be covering this story for the Columbus Dispatch. Anyone want to make a statement?»

Deacon looks like he might be sick. «A story? You’re writing a story?» «About elder abuse in affluent communities,» Rhonda says.

«About successful children who exploit their aging parents. About how money and status don’t prevent cruelty. Yes, I’m writing that story.» The APS investigator pulls out her clipboard.

«I need to conduct interviews, separately. Mrs. Patterson, can I speak with you first?» I nod. She leads me to the living room.

The nice living room with the white couches Sloan wouldn’t let me sit on. We sit there now. Me and this woman with kind eyes and a county badge. She asks questions.

How long have I been here? What are my living conditions? Do I feel safe? Have I been threatened?

Hurt? Neglected? I answer honestly. All of it. Six months of humiliation pouring out in steady, calm words.

Through the doorway, I can see Deacon and Sloan in the kitchen. Marcus stands guard. Rhonda’s photographer is taking pictures of the house, of everything. Another car pulls up outside.

I know who it is before I see him. Vincent Torres walks through the still-open front door. He’s grown up since I last saw him. Tall, professional, successful.

But his eyes are the same. Warm. Kind. Nothing like Deacon’s.

He sees me in the living room. His expression crumbles. «Mama Loretta.» His voice breaks on my name.

He crosses the room in three strides. Kneels down next to my chair. Takes my hand. His thumb brushes over my swollen cheek.

Gentle. Careful. «I’m so sorry,» he whispers. «I should have checked on you. I should have known.»

«It’s not your fault, baby.» «It is. You raised me better than that.» He stands.

Turns toward the kitchen. His voice goes cold. «Deacon. Living room. Now.»

Deacon walks in like a man approaching his own execution. Vincent stands between us. Protective. The way Deacon should have been.

The way a son should be. «I pulled your financials,» Vincent says. «Want to tell your mother again how you can’t afford to help her?»

«How money is tight. How you’re barely making ends meet?» He opens his own briefcase. Pulls out documents.

Spreads them on the coffee table. «Investment portfolio. 1.3 million dollars. The vacation house in Sedona. 450,000.»

«Your annual income: 285,000. Sloan’s income: 310,000.» He looks at Deacon. Really looks at him.

Like he’s seeing a stranger. «You have 600,000 dollars in liquid assets. Your monthly expenses total 9,000 dollars. Including the mortgage, the cars, everything.»

«And you are charging your dying mother 400 dollars a month to sleep in your guest room.» Sloan’s voice comes from the kitchen. Sharp. Defensive.

«We have expenses. We have a lifestyle to maintain.» Vincent doesn’t even look at her. «You spent 4,000 dollars at restaurants last month.»

«3,000 on clothing. 2,000 at the spa. And you charged Mama Loretta 50 dollars for groceries she supposedly ate. Want to see the receipts?»

«Because I have them all. Every single transaction.» The APS investigator writes everything down. Her pen scratches across the paper.

Fast. Angry. Deacon sits down. Puts his head in his hands.

«I didn’t mean for it to go this far.» «You hit her.» Vincent’s voice shakes. «You hit the woman who raised you.»

«Who worked herself into emphysema so you could go to college. Who gave you everything she had. You hit her because she asked your wife not to smoke in the house.»

«Not to kill her a little faster with second-hand smoke.» «I was stressed. We were both stressed. Mom was always complaining.»

«Always needing something. Always.» «She needed oxygen, Deacon.» Vincent’s voice rises.