At 62, I had grown accustomed to living alone since my husband’s passing 15 years ago. But strange things began happening in my house—furniture moved, pictures shifted, and I feared I was losing my mind. Desperate for answers, I set up security cameras.

Initially, nothing unusual appeared. But on the fifth day, I froze in horror: a figure dressed in black was rearranging my belongings. I called the police, who promised to patrol the area. I felt unsafe in my own home and devised a plan to catch the intruder.

The next day, I watched the live feed from a café across the street. My heart raced until, at last, the front door creaked open. The intruder was back! I called the police, whispering that he was in my house. Just as they arrived, he rifled through my personal belongings, holding my late husband’s sweater as if taunting me.

Suddenly, the police burst in and apprehended the intruder. My relief turned to disbelief when they pulled off his mask—it was my son, Trevor, whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years. He raged that I had cut him off and sought to declare me mentally unstable for access to my money.

Devastated, I realized the son I once loved had turned against me. I agreed to pay off his debts to end the nightmare, but I filed a restraining order. As I hung up, I felt emptier than I ever had, mourning not just my husband, but the son I once knew.