On My Birthday, My Daughter Gave Me a Tablet — Eleven Days Later, the Police Took Her Away…
The Birthday Gift That Wasn’t
My daughter gave me a brand new tablet for my 68th birthday. I brought it to my grandson’s house to ask how to use it. He’s a cyber security analyst.
He looked at it for 5 minutes, then his face went white.
“Grandpa,” he said quietly, “we need to call the police. Someone installed spyware on this before you even opened the box.”
I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. It was a gift from my daughter.
But 11 days later, when I discovered what she was really planning, I realized that birthday present was never a present at all. It was a weapon designed to take everything I had, including my freedom.
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Quick note: while some details have been changed to protect privacy, the lessons and warnings in this story are very real., Any similarity to actual names or places is purely coincidental.
A Quiet Birthday
I turned 68 on a Saturday in late October, and the Ontario autumn had already stripped most of the trees bare. I woke up alone in my house in Oakville, same as I’d been waking up for the past 4 years since Margaret passed.
The coffee maker clicked on at 7:00, and I shuffled to the kitchen in my old University of Toronto sweatshirt. The one Margaret always said made me look like a retired professor, which I was, I suppose. 32 years teaching high school history before I finally hung up the chalk.
My phone sat quiet on the counter. No messages. At my age, birthdays aren’t exactly celebrated anymore; they’re just milestones you’re grateful to reach.
Around noon, the doorbell rang. My daughter Evelyn stood on the porch holding a large gift bag with a bright yellow bow. She was smiling that careful smile she’d been wearing for the past year, ever since she started dating that man.
“Happy birthday, Dad,” she stepped inside and handed me the bag., “I wanted to get you something special this year.”
I pulled out a sleek tablet, still sealed in its box. One of those expensive ones with the big screen. Must have cost her $800 at least.
“Evelyn, this is too much.”
“You deserve it,” she kissed my cheek. “Mom always said you needed to get with the times. Now you can video call me, read your books, check your investments, everything in one place.”
I held the box and felt something crack open in my chest. She remembered. After everything, after Margaret’s death, after my retirement, after all the distance that had grown between us, my daughter remembered my birthday.
Memories of the Past
I wasn’t in that kitchen anymore. I was standing in our old backyard in Burlington 30 years ago. Evelyn was 8, running toward me across the grass with a homemade card in her hand. She’d drawn a picture of us together, stick figures holding hands under a yellow sun.
“I made this for you, Daddy,” she’d said, breathless and grinning, “because you’re the best dad in the whole world.”
Margaret had watched from the deck, one hand on her pregnant belly. Our son Michael would arrive 3 months later. Everything was ahead of us then; everything was possible.
The memory dissolved. I was back in my kitchen, 68 years old, holding a tablet I didn’t know how to use.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I said. “This means more than you know.”
Evelyn stayed for lunch. We ate sandwiches at the kitchen table and she asked about my health, my sleep, whether I’d been keeping up with my doctor’s appointments. Normal questions, caring questions, but something in her tone felt rehearsed, like she was checking items off a list.
After she left, I spent the afternoon trying to figure out the tablet. Managed to turn it on at least, set up an account. The screen was big enough for my aging eyes, which I appreciated.
That night, I plugged it in to charge and felt a warmth I hadn’t felt in months. My daughter was thinking about me. Maybe we could rebuild what we’d lost.
I had no idea I’d just placed a surveillance device in my home.
The Discovery
The following Thursday, I drove to my grandson’s apartment in downtown Toronto. Daniel was my son Michael’s boy, 27 years old, sharp as a tack. He worked in cyber security for one of the big banks. I wanted him to help me set up my email and maybe show me how to use the video calling feature.
Daniel made coffee while I explained my confusion with the device. He was patient, the way young people sometimes are with the elderly. That careful kindness that makes you feel both grateful and diminished.
“Let me take a look, Grandpa.” He took the tablet, started tapping and swiping. “I’ll get everything configured for you.”
I watched him work, sipping my coffee. The apartment was small but tidy. Daniel had done well for himself. His father, my son Michael, lived out in Vancouver with his wife and two kids. We talked on the phone every few weeks, but the distance made things difficult.
Daniel’s expression changed. I noticed it immediately, the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his thumb stopped moving.
“Grandpa, where did you get this?”,
“Your Aunt Evelyn. Birthday present.”
He didn’t respond, just kept staring at the screen, tapping through menus I couldn’t follow.
“Daniel, everything all right?”
He looked up at me and I saw something I’d never seen before in my grandson’s face: fear.
“Did Aunt Evelyn set this up for you before she gave it to you?”
“I don’t think so. It was sealed in the box.”
“It wasn’t,” his voice was flat. “Someone configured this before you opened it. And they installed monitoring software. Professional grade. The kind we see in corporate espionage cases.”
My coffee went cold in my hands.
“What are you saying?”
Daniel set the tablet down carefully like it might explode.
“I’m saying someone can see everything you do on this. Every website you visit, every password you type, every email you send. They can activate the camera and microphone remotely. They can watch you, Grandpa. Listen to you in your own home.”
The room tilted. I set down my mug before I dropped it.
“That’s not possible. Evelyn gave me this. My daughter.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.,
“I know what I’m looking at. I do this for a living. This software didn’t install itself.”
“Maybe it was the manufacturer? Some kind of defect?”
“No,” he shook his head. “This is deliberate. Someone specifically configured this device to monitor you before it was wrapped in that birthday paper.”
I stared at the tablet on his coffee table. It looked so innocent, just glass and metal and circuitry. A gift from my daughter.
“What do I do?”
Daniel was already reaching for his phone.
“We called the police.”
