I thought the most embarrassing part of Thanksgiving would be pretending I wasn’t hungry enough for seconds. I was wrong.

Over the next three months, the true extent of Avalon’s deceit was systematically dismantled by the courts and financial investigators.

Because the stolen funds exceeded eighty thousand dollars over two years and involved mail fraud across state lines via the postal service, the district attorney filed felony grand larceny and federal mail fraud charges against Avalon. Her parents refused to pay her bail, leaving her to sit in a county jail cell awaiting trial.

Randall put the Oakwood Hills house on the market immediately.

We spent three weeks packing up the massive house. Every room contained evidence of her obsession with wealth—closets stuffed with unworn designer dresses, price tags still attached; drawers full of expensive jewelry; invoices for extravagant parties she had thrown to impress her wealthy neighbors.

As part of the civil restitution agreement filed alongside the criminal charges, the court ordered the liquidation of all assets purchased with the stolen money. Her handbags, jewelry, and luxury cars were auctioned off by the county sheriff’s department.

One afternoon, while clearing out the master bedroom closet, Randall found a small wooden box hidden behind a stack of shoe boxes on the top shelf.

He brought it down to the living room where I was sitting.

"Mom," he said softly, handing me the box. "Look at this."

I opened the latch. Inside were dozen of unopened letters, birthday cards, and small packages—all addressed to me in Randall’s handwriting, spanning over two years.

I picked up a pink birthday card from eighteen months ago. Inside was a handwritten note from Randall: “Happy 63rd Birthday, Mom. Thank you for always being my rock. I love you more than words can say.”

Attached to the card was a photograph of Randall holding a small brass key.

"What is this key?" I asked, looking up at him.

Randall wiped a tear from his eye. "When I got my big promotion two years ago... I bought a small two-bedroom cottage down by the lake in Evanston. I bought it for you, Mom. I wanted it to be your retirement surprise. But when Avalon told me you refused my help and wanted to stay independent, I... I thought you didn't want it. So I let her manage the property listing."

I stared at the brass key in my hand. Avalon hadn't just stolen my monthly living money; she had prevented me from living in a beautiful lakefront cottage my son had purchased for me with his own hard work.