A FOOL AND HER MONEY -- AN ELDER ROMANCE SCAM AND LEGAL BATTLE

At ninety-three, Martha had no patience for bingo or bridge. Her days were neatly arranged, morning coffee with cream and toast, an afternoon walk when the weather was fair, and Sunday service with her daughter Kim. But what no one knew—not Kim, not her sons Don or Fred—was that Martha’s heart, long dormant, had begun to stir again.

It started innocently enough, as these things do. A friend-of-a-friend email request, then a pleasant exchange. David. Fifty-eight. A widower. Overseas on business. “Your smile reminds me of my late wife’s,” he wrote. “You have a graceful strength I admire.” Martha, flattered, replied. One message became ten. Then a hundred. Over weeks, she began to look forward to his notes more than the sunrise.

He never asked for much—until he did.

His friend, he explained, had been kidnapped in a politically unstable part of the country. The captors were cruel. The man was tied to a chair. Unless $50,000 was wired by week’s end, they’d kill him. “I can’t ask anyone else,” David pleaded. “You’re the only one I trust.”

Martha, in a moment she would later call “a test of love,” sent thirty thousand first. Then came the request for more. Another forty. Then ten more. She never told anyone, of course. It was private. Sacred, even. Until Kim found out.

“Mother,” Kim cried one Tuesday morning, holding up the wire transfer receipt. “You gave how much to a man you’ve never met?”

Martha sat composed in her kitchen chair, a steaming cup of weak Earl Grey in front of her. “He is a good man. And I care about him.”

“He’s a fraud!” Kim shouted, then dropped her voice, glancing at the neighbors’ windows. “This is textbook elder abuse. He’s playing on your loneliness.” “I am not lonely,” Martha said, lifting her chin. “I have friends. I have you. And I have David.”

Kim drove home in tears. She read a book on how to protect elders from romance scams, but to no avail. She needed a lawyer. Her brothers, Don and Fred, were shocked when she told them. Fred wanted to storm the house. Don, the quieter one, said simply, “She’s still of sound mind. What can we do? I mean this is the epitome of elder financial abuse” Plenty, Kim decided.

They schemed quietly. One night, when Martha had dozed off in her recliner watching The Lawrence Welk Show, Kim slipped her phone from the side table. The next morning, Martha awoke to a slightly different model. “The old one was outdated,” Kim said, rehearsed. “This one’s faster. I transferred your photos, but some contacts didn’t carry over.” Martha smiled politely. But by nightfall, she was back online—new Gmail, new contact list, a new chat app David suggested “just in case anyone’s spying.” The man was resourceful. So was she.

The money kept flowing. Quietly. Consistently.

By month three, nearly $400,000 of Martha’s $600,000 retirement fund had vanished. Kim and her brothers were frantic. An elder abuse lawyer was hired. He told them this was the most effective romance scam he'd seen. He advised petitioning the bank to freeze the accounts until an assessment could be made. The bank complied, cautiously.
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But Martha wasn’t done. She hired her own attorney. A sharp one. And she didn’t miss a beat in court.

“Your Honor,” her lawyer said, “my client is of sound mind, passes all cognitive assessments, and has the right to dispose of her assets however she wishes—even unwisely. I mean, really, is it elder fraud if my client is of sound mind?” The judge looked at Martha, who was dressed in a deep blue suit, hair set, lipstick done just so. Her voice was clear, her mind sharp. “Do you understand the consequences of your actions?” the judge asked. “I do,” Martha said. “And I resent being treated like a child.”

The bank account was unfrozen.

Back home, Kim wept in the guest bathroom while Martha returned to her tea and online messages. Don stopped calling. Fred raged quietly to his wife and then said nothing more. Within six more months, it was gone. Every CD. Every mutual fund. Her savings account. Even the little lockbox with jewelry had been pawned for a final wire transfer “to get David and his friend over the border safely.”

Then, silence. David stopped writing. Emails bounced. The messaging app returned only a red exclamation point and the empty echo of betrayal.

Martha said nothing. Not to Kim, not to the boys. She clipped coupons again. She started bringing instant coffee to church socials. She even applied for a low-income subsidy for her prescriptions. She sold the Buick. Kim found out through a neighbor.

One overcast Thursday, Kim brought soup to her mother’s house. Martha looked thinner, her cheeks a bit hollow. But she opened the door, eyes clear and defiant.

“Have you come to scold me?” she asked. “No,” Kim whispered, setting the soup down. “Just… wanted to see you.”

​They sat in silence at the table, the same table where Martha used to serve pot roast and homemade rolls. “I know I made a mistake,” Martha said finally, staring at the steam rising from the bowl. “But don’t tell me it wasn’t love. It felt like love.”
Kim nodded. “I know. But love wouldn’t have taken your last dime.”
Martha’s eyes watered, but she did not cry. “No,” she agreed softly. “No, it wouldn’t have.”

Don called more often after that. Fred came by with groceries. They didn’t mention the money. The damage was done. But the family—what was left of it—began to mend.

Years later, at the memory care unit, Martha sometimes asked the nurses if David had called. By then, time had dulled the details. Her mind wandered. But Kim never corrected her. She just squeezed her hand, brushed her hair, and said, “Not yet, Mom. Maybe tomorrow.”