At seventy nine years old I never expected my child to take advantage of my vulnerability while I was in a hospital bed. That spring I had taken a terrible fall and suffered a broken hip which required eleven days in the hospital followed by three weeks in rehab. I had given my son Kevin a spare key to my house purely for emergencies. During his visits he repeatedly focused his attention on my old reliable sedan parked in my driveway. He insisted that I would not be driving for a long time and hinted that the car was going to waste. I firmly told him the vehicle was fine where it was. When a nurse drove me home on a quiet Tuesday afternoon my driveway was completely empty. I contacted my son to find out what happened and he casually admitted that he had sold my car online for three thousand two hundred dollars. He justified his actions by claiming he needed the cash to pay his bad bills. I realized with heavy exhaustion that he had stolen my property.
Sitting completely alone in my kitchen I felt an overwhelming dread wash over me because my son had no idea what he had actually given away. A decade earlier before my husband Walt passed away he strongly advised me not to keep all my assets locked in a bank. He believed it was crucial to keep emergency funds hidden where only I knew the location. Following his advice I had carefully wrapped our funeral money and the extra funds I had saved from my pension inside a plastic grocery bag. I wrapped that bag tightly inside a thick towel and wedged it deep inside the trunk of my sedan safely concealed underneath the spare tire. That bundle contained exactly forty one thousand dollars of my life savings. I had never breathed a word about this secret fund to my son or anyone else. When I realized my dependable car was permanently gone I knew my financial safety net had vanished with it. I was terrified to explain the true value of what he had sold because I feared he would track down the buyer to claim the cash for himself.
On Thursday morning my anxious waiting was interrupted when a stranger knocked firmly on my front door. I pushed my medical walker across the room and opened the door to find a working man dressed in paint splashed jeans standing on my porch. In one hand he held the familiar keys to my missing car and in his other hand he gripped the exact plastic grocery bag still wrapped in my old towel. He politely confirmed that my name was Peggy Larson and explained that he had purchased my sedan from Kevin the previous Sunday. The buyer had discovered my true identity and home address because my official registration paperwork was still inside the glove box. He explained that he had suffered a flat tire the previous day and discovered the hidden bundle while retrieving the spare tire. The honest stranger told me he had counted the stack of bills to ensure every single dollar of the forty one thousand was still there. My relief quickly turned to deep anxiety when he warned me that my son had called him early that morning desperately trying to retrieve what he falsely claimed were important personal papers.