My Grandson Moved In To Help With My Alzheimer’s. Then I Found A Folder Labeled ‘gold Clips’ Containing Videos Of Me Crying Over My Dead Wife. How Do I Get Him Out?

The Buzzing in the Dark

The notification sound on my phone wouldn’t stop at 3:00 in the morning, and it kept buzzing like an angry hornet trapped in a jar. I fumbled for my reading glasses on the nightstand, squinting at the screen through the darkness of my bedroom. There were 67 missed notifications, all from the same app I’d never even heard of until that moment: TikTok.

My name is Richard Harrison, and I’m about to tell you how my own grandson tried to turn my illness into internet gold. I should back up. Six months ago, I was diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s. It was not the kind where you forget your children’s names just yet, but enough that sometimes I’d find myself in the kitchen wondering why I’d walked there, or I’d repeat the same story twice in one conversation without realizing it.

My wife, Eleanor, passed three years back, and I’d been living alone in our house in Portland, Oregon. It is the same house we bought in 1985 when the neighborhood was just starting to grow. These days, the place feels too big for one person, with too many rooms echoing with memories.

A Grandson’s Proposal

My grandson, Tyler, showed up at my door on a Tuesday afternoon in late spring. He had that earnest look on his face, the one he used to wear as a kid when he wanted something but was trying to appear selfless. He’s 28 now, tall like his father was, with his grandmother’s green eyes.

He told me he’d been worried about me living alone and that his mother, my daughter Rachel, had been losing sleep over it. He said he wanted to move in for a while, help me around the house, make sure I was taking my medications, and keep up with doctor’s appointments. What kind of grandfather says no to that?

I said yes. God help me, I said yes.

Tyler moved in that weekend with just two suitcases and a large duffel bag full of what he called electronics for work. He was between jobs, he said, doing freelance social media consulting. I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but young people have their careers now that didn’t exist when I was their age. He set himself up in the guest room down the hall, the one that used to be his mother’s before she married and moved to Seattle.

The Hidden Eyes

The first week was nice. Tyler would make breakfast, we’d talk about the Trailblazers, he’d help me organize my pill bottles, and he even fixed the loose board on the back porch that had been driving me crazy for months. I felt grateful, relieved even. Maybe getting older didn’t have to mean being alone.

The second week, I started noticing small things. Tyler would have his phone out constantly, angled toward me, even when we were just watching television. He’d ask me to repeat stories I’d already told him, but with this strange enthusiasm that didn’t quite match his expression.

“Tell me again about the time you and Grandma got lost in Arizona,” he’d say, phone casually resting on the arm of his chair, screen facing me.

“I’m old, but I’m not stupid,” I said.

“Not yet anyway,” he replied.

The third week, I found the first camera. I’d been looking for my reading glasses, checking the usual spots, when I noticed something odd mounted in the corner of the living room, hidden partially behind the curtain rod. It was small, with a black lens pointing directly at my recliner where I spent most evenings.

I stood on a chair to get a closer look, my knees protesting the whole way up. Ring camera, the label said. For security, probably. Tyler must have installed it to keep an eye on things, make sure I didn’t fall or have an episode when he was out. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I wanted to believe.

But then I found the second one in the kitchen, tucked behind the ceramic rooster Eleanor had loved, positioned to capture the entire room. And a third one in the hallway disguised as a smoke detector, and a fourth in the bathroom hidden in the ventilation grate. The bathroom. He’d put a camera in the bathroom where his own grandfather showered and dressed.

The Confrontation and The Lie

My hands were shaking when I confronted him that evening. He was in his room with the door half-open, hunched over his laptop, wearing headphones. I knocked twice, harder than necessary. He pulled the headphones down around his neck and turned to me with that same earnest expression.

“Grandpa Richard, what’s up?”

“The cameras,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “Why are there cameras everywhere in my house?”

He didn’t even flinch.

“Oh, those. It’s for your safety. Mom was worried about you having a fall when I’m not here. This way I can check on you from my phone, make sure you’re okay.”

“There’s one in the bathroom, Tyler.”

“That’s the hallway camera. The angle just happens to catch part of the bathroom door. It’s not actually in the bathroom.”

He was lying. I could see it in the way his eyes shifted slightly left, the way his hand moved to scratch the back of his neck. I’d been a high school principal for 33 years before I retired; you learned to spot a lie.

“I want them gone,” I said.

“Grandpa, come on. It’s for your protection.”

“It’s my house. Take them down.”

He held up his hands and surrendered.

“Okay, okay. I’ll take them down tomorrow. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to help.”

Gramps World Official

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Something felt wrong, deeper than the cameras. I kept thinking about his phone always pointed at me, the way he’d asked me to repeat myself, and that duffel bag full of electronics. At 4:00 in the morning, I gave up on sleep and made my way downstairs to make coffee.

That’s when I saw the light under Tyler’s door and heard voices—multiple voices, but only Tyler was in there. I pressed my ear to the door, feeling ridiculous, like a character in some television drama, but I heard it clearly.

Tyler’s voice, then a woman’s voice, then a burst of laughter that sounded canned, artificial. Then Tyler again.

“Wait, wait, let me show you the best one from yesterday. Watch this.”

My own voice came through the door, tiny through laptop speakers.

“Eleanor, Eleanor, where did you put the car keys? We’re going to be late for church.”

A pause, then my voice again, confused.

“Oh right. Eleanor’s not… I forgot.”

More laughter.

The woman’s voice said, “Oh my god, that’s so sad though.”

Tyler replied, “I know, right? That’s what makes it good content. Real, you know? Not staged.”

I stood in that hallway for what felt like an hour, but was probably only a minute. My heart was doing something complicated in my chest, beating too hard and too fast. I backed away from the door slowly, carefully, like I was trying not to wake a sleeping bear, made it back to my room, and sat on the edge of my bed in the dark.

That’s when I picked up my phone and saw those 67 notifications. I didn’t have TikTok installed, so I downloaded it, hands clumsy on the screen. I created an account and searched for Tyler’s name. Nothing under his real name, but then I tried variations: T Harrison, Tyler H.

Finally, I found it: “Gramps World Official”. 543,000 followers. The profile picture was a photo of me sleeping in my recliner, mouth open, the television casting blue light across my face. The bio read: “Taking care of Gramps with Alzheimer’s. Real life, real struggles, real love. Follow our journey.”