And he had failed. Slowly. One argument at a time.
One compromise at a time. Until they finally turned on him in unity. They smeared him.
Publicly. Quietly. Ruthlessly.
They whispered to neighbors that he was “losing his grip.” They told his business partners he was “struggling with early-onset dementia.”
He’d signed the house over to my mother “temporarily,” a desperate move when his company faltered in 2019, just so she could refinance it with her cleaner credit score. He never got it back. They emptied his bank account under the guise of “family debt” and “medical necessities” that didn’t exist.
He had nothing left. I still remember the night he arrived at my doorstep. It was a Tuesday, biting cold.
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