My Son Thought I Didn’t Know He Was Stealing My House. I Transferred The Deed At 3AM…

I transferred the house deed back into my name at 3:00 a.m. that morning. My hands were steady as I signed the papers in my lawyer’s home office.

The only sound was the scratch of pen on paper and the distant hum of his wife’s oxygen machine upstairs. Marcus had no idea what I’d just done.

He thought the house was already his. Let me back up.

My name is Robert Chen. I’m 67 years old and until 6 months ago, I thought I had a good son.

Not a perfect son, but a good one. Marcus was my only child.

His mother, my late wife Diana, passed away three years ago from pancreatic cancer. It was sudden, brutal, the kind of death that leaves you hollow.

Marcus seemed devastated. He flew in from Seattle where he’d been living with his wife, Jennifer, and their two kids.

He held my hand at the funeral. He gave a beautiful eulogy.

He stayed for 2 weeks afterward helping me sort through Diana’s things. He was making sure I ate and checking that I took my blood pressure medication.

Then he went back to Seattle, and I was alone in our four-bedroom house in Portland, Oregon. The house Diana and I had bought in 1985 for $90,000.

The house is now worth 1.2 million, sitting in a neighborhood that gentrified around us while we weren’t paying attention. For 2 years, I managed.

I had my routines: coffee at 6:00 a.m., walk to the park, and lunch with my friend Bernard. I did volunteer work at the library on Tuesdays.

I video called Marcus every Sunday. He’d tell me about his job in tech sales and about how my grandchildren, Emma and Tyler, were doing in school.

He talked about Jennifer’s part-time work as a yoga instructor. Everything seemed fine until last March.

That’s when Marcus called on a Wednesday, not a Sunday.

“Dad,”

he said, his voice tight,

“I need to talk to you about something serious.”

My first thought was health, cancer like Diana, but no.

“I lost my job,”

he said.

“The whole division got cut. I’ve been looking for 3 months, Dad. Nothing. And Jennifer, her studio closed. We’re burning through savings. The kids’ school tuition is due. The mortgage is killing us.”

I felt that parental instinct kick in. It is the one that never dies, no matter how old your child gets.

“How much do you need?”

I asked.

There was a long pause.

“Dad, it’s not just about money. It’s bigger than that. We’re thinking, Jennifer and I, maybe we should move back to Portland. The cost of living in Seattle is insane and you, you’re alone in that big house. What if you fell? What if something happened?”

He painted the picture carefully and logically. They’d move into the house and help with expenses.

I wouldn’t be alone. The grandkids could have a yard.

Marcus could take his time finding the right job, not just any job.

“I don’t need taken care of,”

I said, more sharply than I intended.

“I know, Dad, I know. But wouldn’t it be nice having family around? Diana would have wanted that.”

He invoked her name like a key to a lock, and it worked. They moved in last April: Marcus, Jennifer, Emma, and Tyler.

Suddenly my quiet house was full of noise. There were cartoon shows and Jennifer’s wellness podcasts playing in the kitchen.

There was Tyler’s saxophone practice. It was chaotic, but also, I admit, it felt good at first.

It felt alive. Marcus took over the master bedroom.

I moved into the smaller guest room.

“Just temporarily, Dad,”

he said,

“until we figure things out.”