Thursday evening after supper, I received a call from my mother. Her voice was low and sounded quite desparate:
Mom: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Just got through with supper."
Mom: "What have you got planned tonight?"
Me: "Nothing. What's up?"
Mom: "I need you to come over here and help me with something."
And over there I went. She was visibly upset, on the verge of tears. It seems my ungrateful dopehead of a nephew has once again taken full advantage of my mother, and this time, she got the picture all have been trying to paint for her for years. Against all advice, she took him in "because someone has to help him, he's living in his car!" and gave him a place to sleep and bathe, and someone to love him...and she's the only one who would because let me tell you, the little shit is hard to love. He lost a[nother] great job paying good money because he failed yet another drug test. He has a marginal wife, a beautiful daughter and step-son, and they live with her mother because he can't keep them in a house due to his drug problem. This isn't the first time he's screwed up. It's an ongoing thing - a few years ago, I found out that he'd pawned my dad's rifle - now this was after I'd several times told him that if he needed money, and even thought about pawning that gun, to come to me - never to let it get out of his hands - so I went to the pawnshop and bought it back. God knows we didn't get much of his after he died, and damned if I was going to let that go. It's an ongoing siege with this little heathen.
Actually, the other part of this story starts several years ago when my grandfather was going headstrong into Parkinsonism. When he could still walk and talk, and was on medication to control trembles, along with another to control the hallucinations the tremble medication causes. He began to obsess with paranoia that someone was stealing his silver coin collection. So, my mother catalogued it all and took it to her house for "safekeeping" in an attempt to alleviate his worries. Since then, it's sat in 3 drawers in my mother's unused den safe and sound. Until Thursday.
"He's been stealing daddy's silver. We have to count it, and then I have to call the police and report it."
So count we did until just after 9pm. So the outcome is actually better than it could have been - there's only appx. 300 coins in silver dimes, and silver and clad halves and dollar pieces, as well as a 10 tr. oz. bar gone - no, not $300 worth - I mean 300 coins. God knows what it's actually worth in monetary value, and there's no price that can be quoted on the sentimental value. None of it's been appraised or priced, or whatever you do with coins.
I have worried and figited over it all day, and decided to just go get it and put it in a box at the bank after work yesterday. God knows who he's told about this stash, and what those little ingrates might do for it.
I feel much better now.
And so does mom.
My grandfather would have been heartbroken by my nephew's actions, and his words. Thank God he isn't here to see it. All my nephew has to say about the whole thing is "I needed the money bad and I knew you wouldn't give it to me, so I took it, but I didn't steal it." Now...I may not be the most intelligent person, but what is the definition of stealing? He had the audacity to say "none of my family give a damn about me" when my mother asked him why he did it. I can't imagine how someone could be so disrespectful of their family, especially the few who've tried over and over when no one else would or should to help. What a disgrace.
What an addict.
What a shame.
No comments:
Post a Comment