My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

Desmond lived in Riverside Heights, where the homes were large in a polished, professionally landscaped way that suggested money but not quite history. I had helped them buy that house eight years earlier when Karen decided the first one was “too transitional” for the life they wanted to build. The colonial facade had brick steps and black shutters and a wide front porch with white rocking chairs nobody ever sat in. His Range Rover gleamed in the driveway like a trophy. Karen’s white Mercedes sat beside it. Both cars had come from Morrison dealerships. Both on financing so favorable it might as well have been a gift.

I rang the bell and Karen opened the door wearing white tennis clothes and a face that instantly told me I had not, in fact, been the victim of a misunderstanding.