Ever since September 11, 2001, my mother had been affected. A day the United States will never forget was never fully unpacked in our family. The terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers rewired her sense of safety—but we never named it. We never diagnosed it. We just lived with the aftermath.

At the time, I was taking a year off from school and had just moved into a new apartment. I didn’t have television service yet, so I relied on a toll-free hotline for entertainment and news—current events, trivia, entertainment. But the updates weren’t in real time. I was in the dark about what was happening in Manhattan. My mom and I spoke daily, but that day, I couldn’t reach her. I panicked.

When she finally called, she was walking home from Midtown to the Bronx—eight miles through dust and debris. Cell phone reception was spotty, and when it came back, she described the scene as frantic and surreal. Crowds moved like a solemn parade, but the confusion made each person feel alone. She was borrowing a stranger's phone to call me. The dust was so thick, we couldn’t stay on the phone. She would be different from that day on.

My mom had always feared heights and flying. After 9/11, her fear of travel intensified. In the Bronx, our train line was elevated before it entered the subway. Whether overhead or underground, her sense of personal security was shaken. Her PTSD took shape quietly—through reluctance to commute, sleepless nights, and talks of quitting her job. Her mobility and independence began to shrink.

The subway stairs became a symbol of vulnerability. A portal to an uncontrollable journey. When she finally shared that fear with me, it wasn’t just about steps—it was about survival in her own safe haven.

At the same time, a pattern of financial exploitation was surging at home. My mom had distanced herself from her former housemate, but that person continued accessing her bank account. On the day she texted me about the subway stairs, a $371 rent payment was made—for someone else’s out-of-state apartment. Two weeks earlier, there were two more payments: $300 and $1006. In one month, this person drained $1,677 from my mom’s account. Linda's monthly bills were $1,150. Her fixed income was $1,300. She was left with $200 to survive.

This person was not just a roommate. She was an uncontrollable threat—bleeding my mom’s retirement savings and exploiting her vulnerability.

My mom began going out less—not just to save money, but to avoid public transportation. She never had a driver’s license and preferred land or sea travel. At home, she began drinking heavily as self-medication. Her then-roommate enabled the habit but didn’t participate. I met her roommate's mother once who showed recognizable signs of substance abuse and addiction. Her own mother passed in away in 1999, not too long after our meeting.

I warned my mom: never trust a drinking partner who doesn’t drink. But the isolation deepened. The woman who once greeted me at the door stopped speaking to me entirely. She blocked our communication, isolating my mom from me. Our relationship went from pleasant to nonexistent overnight. I should have called the police then and there to report her—for stealing my mother.

Despite rising rent, my mom attempted to reclaim her space—but couldn’t fully sever ties. She applied for senior housing and texted me, asking me to move back in. The rent consumed two-thirds of her income, and the suspect—who had access to her personal information—continued draining her account. I relocated in 2023, but my mom wasn't asking for help anymore.

My mom was isolated from anyone who could recognize what was happening. But she texted me letting me know she was in a difficult situation. The suspect would also text me, pretending to be her. When I visited, I’d always find her phone reset with the messages and photos missing. She didn’t know how it happened. On these visits, she would call her friends to put them on the phone with me—maybe hoping they’d say what she couldn’t.

Three months before her death, she visited me in Connecticut. I’d been in a motorcycle accident the day before, and she rushed to me with crutches, first aid supplies, and sugar-free drink mixes. She came to the ER with me. She spent the night. She promised to return the following weekend before my surgery.

But on that second visit, the suspect wouldn’t stop calling—distracting her while we bonded over this new beginning we were going through. I told her what I thought was happening. It led to an argument. After she returned home, the rent payments on the New Jersey apartment resumed—and surged.

I don’t know exactly what my mom was going through. I just know she was being aggressively put down by a woman nearly 20 years younger and almost twice her size.

This former roommate didn’t respect boundaries. She imposed on my mom’s private relationships, convinced her she needed emergency keys, registered my mom’s cellphone under her own email address, and ultimately took Linda’s government-issued Life Line phone, her keys, and her wallet—after the coroner carried out the body.