But that was his journey now, not mine.
Two months after the confrontation in Gerald’s office, I received a letter from an unexpected source: Jessica’s divorce attorney.
Inside was a subpoena.
Jessica was attempting to sue me for alienation of affection and intentional infliction of emotional distress.
I showed it to Gerald.
He actually laughed.
“She’s desperate. This lawsuit has no merit whatsoever. You didn’t break up their marriage. They did that themselves. And everything you did was legal and justified.”
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“We file a countersuit for harassment and malicious prosecution,” he said, “and we win.”
He was right.
The judge dismissed Jessica’s lawsuit within twenty minutes of the hearing, calling it frivolous and vindictive. Then he listened to Gerald present our counterevidence—all the threats, the attempted fraud, the forged documents, the pattern of abuse.
Jessica’s attorney advised her to settle rather than face criminal charges.
The settlement was simple.
Jessica would pay $15,000 in legal fees and agree to have no contact with me for the rest of her life. Any violation would result in immediate criminal prosecution with no further warnings.
She signed without even reading it, her hands shaking with rage.
As we left the courthouse, she tried one last time.
“You destroyed my marriage!” she shouted across the parking lot. “You destroyed my life!”
I turned to face her—this woman who’d tried so hard to destroy mine.
“No, Jessica,” I said. “You did that yourself. When you decided money was more important than people. When you turned my son against his mother. When you forgot that cruelty always comes back around.”
“I hope you’ve rotten in that house!” her voice broke.
“I hope…”
“Goodbye, Jessica.”
I got into my car and drove away, leaving her screaming in the parking lot.
I never saw her again.
Derek’s situation continued to deteriorate. The ethics investigation at his accounting firm concluded with his termination—not for the attempted fraud against me. They couldn’t prove that affected his work.
But for falsifying expense reports to maintain Jessica’s expensive lifestyle.
Apparently, the scrutiny I’d brought down on him led them to dig deeper into his finances.
He lost his CPA license. He lost his reputation in the community. He lost friends who didn’t want to be associated with someone known for elder abuse.
I heard through Linda that he’d moved two states away, working as a bookkeeper for a small business, living in a tiny apartment, rebuilding his life from scratch.
Part of me felt sorry for him.
But a larger part of me knew this was the consequence of his choices.
Not my actions.
His.
As for me, the six-month rental period with the Reyes family ended, and I made a decision.
I bought a beautiful two-bedroom condo in a senior living community—not assisted living, but an active community for people over fifty-five. It had a pool, a garden, social activities, and most importantly, a strong sense of community.
The Reyes family kept my old house and turned it into a loving home for their growing family. Sometimes I drive by and see children’s toys in the yard, hear laughter through the windows.
It makes me smile, knowing that house is filled with love again instead of being torn apart by greed.
I took the money from selling the house—the $615,000 plus my other savings—and set up a trust, not for Derek, but for a scholarship fund at the local community college, helping students from low-income families afford education.
It was named after Robert, my late husband, who’d always believed in education and opportunity.
Every semester, five students receive $10,000 each. Some of them send me thank-you letters telling me how the scholarship changed their lives.
That’s legacy.
Not a house.
Not money in a bank account.
The lives you touch.
The difference you make.
Gerald helped me draft a new will. Everything I own will go to various charities when I die: the library, the community college, local organizations that help seniors.
Derek is mentioned in the will explicitly.
“To my son Derek Henderson, I leave nothing, as he already took everything he wanted from me in life.”
It sounds harsh.
Maybe it is.
But it’s honest.
And sometimes honesty is the greatest kindness.
Six months into my new life at Riverside Senior Community, I woke up each morning actually excited about the day ahead.
My condo was cozy, manageable, filled with light. I kept only the items that brought me joy: Robert’s photos, my mother’s china that I actually used now, books I loved.
I made friends quickly—Dorothy, a retired school principal. Frank and Susan, married forty-nine years. Maria, whose husband had passed two years ago, who understood grief without trying to fix it.
We had weekly dinners, played bridge, took day trips.
I joined the community theater and volunteered at the local elementary school.
My life was full, rich, purposeful.
One Tuesday morning, Margaret called.
“Jessica was arrested for credit card fraud,” she said. “She’d been opening credit cards in other people’s names, including her own mother’s. She’s facing up to ten years in prison.”
I felt mostly sad—sad that greed could destroy someone so completely.
Through Linda, I heard Derek had hit rock bottom but started real therapy. He was working at a nonprofit now, volunteering at a food bank.
He asks about you, Linda said. He just wants to know you’re okay.
“Don’t tell him where I live,” I said.
“Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Did I miss Derek?
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