I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the bedroom closet sliding open.
I kept imagining strangers touching Frank's coats.
At six in the morning, I finally got out of bed.
The house was cold.
I put the kettle on and stood beside the kitchen window.
The red-and-white real estate sign was still visible from where I stood.
I made coffee.
Then I called my solicitor.
Her name was Margaret.
Frank and I had used her office for years, including when we finally paid off the original mortgage in 2009.
She knew our family.
She had handled Frank's estate after his death.
When she answered, I explained what had happened.
I told her about the open house.
The accepted offer.
The power of attorney.
And the new mortgage.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked one question.
"Did you personally authorize the sale?"
"No."
"Did you sign a property listing agreement?"
"No."
"Have you seen the documents your children submitted?"
"Not all of them."
She paused.
"Then don't sign anything. Don't agree to anything verbally. I'll need to review the paperwork."
I felt relieved.
Not because the problem was solved.
Because someone was finally taking my concerns seriously.
Margaret arranged to see me that afternoon.
Before ending the call, she asked about the lender.
I gave her the name.
There was another pause.
"All right," she said. "Bring every document you have."
I spent the morning collecting papers.
The mortgage agreement.
The registration confirmation.
The payment statements.
The original property documents.
I placed everything in a brown folder.
It was the same folder Frank had used for household insurance.
At eleven, Paul called.
I watched his name appear on my phone.
I let it ring twice before answering.
"Morning, Mom."
"Morning."
"Have you spoken to the realtor?"
"Yes."
"And what did you tell her?"
"The truth."
He sighed.
"You're making this much harder than it needs to be."
I looked at the brown folder on the table.
"Paul, you listed my house while I was away."
"We thought we were helping."
"Then you should have spoken to me."
He became quiet.
Then he asked whether I had contacted a lawyer.
I didn't answer immediately.
"Why?"
"Because we don't need to turn this into a legal fight."
I almost laughed.
"You already made it a legal matter when you tried to sell my property."
He ended the call shortly afterward.
At two, Margaret arrived.
She brought another solicitor from her office.
They sat at my dining table.
The same table that had held the cheese platter the day before.
I placed the brown folder between them.
Margaret read everything carefully.
She asked about the circumstances surrounding the mortgage.
She checked the dates.
She examined the registration details.
Then she asked for the power of attorney documents.
I told her I didn't have a complete copy.
She frowned.
"Then we'll request one."
I asked whether Paul and Denise could legally sell the house using those documents.
She didn't give me a quick answer.
She explained that the precise authority depended on the document's wording, the applicable law, and the circumstances of its execution.
But she made one thing clear.
A power of attorney was not automatically permission to do whatever an agent wanted.
There were duties attached to it.
And those duties mattered.
I looked down at my hands.
For the first time since Saturday, I felt that I might be able to protect myself.
Then Margaret turned to the mortgage agreement.
She examined the lender's name again.
"Is this the organization you mentioned yesterday?"
"Yes."
She nodded.
"Then we should contact them directly and obtain written confirmation of their position."
I agreed.
Before leaving, she asked me something unexpected.
"Have you told your children why you took out this mortgage?"
"No."
"Do you intend to?"
I looked toward Frank's chair.
"Not until I know exactly what they've done."
Margaret understood.
She placed the documents back into the folder.
And for the first time, I felt ready to face what came next.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: My Daughter Arrived With Flowers and an Apology, but the Questions She Asked Told Me What She Really Wanted
I Thought My Children Were Worried About Me, Until I Came Home and Found Strangers Inside My House
Part 9 of 24
