My Daughter-in-law Is Poisoning My Son For A $2 Million Payout. I Disguised Myself As A Caregiver To Infiltrate Their House. Am I Going Too Far To Save Him?

She’d also taken out a life insurance policy on Daniel for $2 million, six months into their marriage. “She’s setting up for him to die,” Rita said bluntly.

“Either from the drugs themselves, or she’ll increase the dosage until his organs fail. Then she walks away with everything and plays the grieving widow.”

I felt physically sick. But Rita had more.

“She’s advertising for a living caregiver. Posted it yesterday on three different job sites. Says her husband needs round-the-clock care due to his declining condition.”

That’s when the idea hit me. It was crazy, desperate, but possible.

“Rita, how’s your makeup skills?” She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I need you to make me look 20 years older. And I need to become that caregiver.”

Rita stared at me, then slowly, she smiled. “You’re insane. I love it.”

Becoming Helen Schmidt

Here’s the thing about being 62 and plain-looking: people don’t notice you.

Add some gray hair dye, age spot makeup, thick glasses, and a slight hunch, and you become invisible. Just another elderly woman shuffling through life.

Rita transformed me in her apartment. She gave me brown contact lenses to hide my blue eyes and prosthetic jowls to change my face shape.

She added a gray wig cut in a completely different style than my usual shoulder-length auburn hair.

She taught me to shuffle when I walked and to speak more slowly. She taught me to add a slight tremor to my hands.

When she was done, I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. “Meet Helen Schmidt,” Rita said.

“68 years old. 30 years of nursing experience. Recently widowed. Needs work to stay busy.”

The credentials were perfect, and the references were impeccable. She handed me a fake ID, a resume, and a background story we’d spent days crafting.

I practiced for three days. I rehearsed Helen’s life story until I could recite it in my sleep.

I watched videos of elderly caregivers to mimic their mannerisms. I even affected a slight Midwestern accent, different from my Pacific Northwest speech.

Then I applied for the job. Vivien called me two days later.

“Mrs. Schmidt, this is Vivien Hartwell. I’d like to interview you for the caregiver position.”

Sitting across from my daughter-in-law in a coffee shop, disguised as someone else, was surreal. She looked right at me with no recognition in her eyes.

I was just another old woman to her, beneath notice. “My husband is very ill,” She said, her voice dripping with false concern.

“He has early onset dementia. He needs constant supervision. Can you handle that?”

“Oh yes, dear,” I said in Helen’s slower, scratchy voice.

“I cared for my late husband for five years before he passed. I know how difficult it is.”

She asked about my experience. I rattled off Helen’s fabricated resume.

I was perfect on paper and clearly desperate enough to accept low pay in exchange for room and board. I was Vivien’s type of employee.

“When can you start?” She asked immediately.

The Undercover Caregiver and the Hidden Truth

I moved into my son’s house three days later. I stayed in the guest room downstairs, across from the master bedroom where Daniel spent most of his time.

Vivien gave me instructions in a tone reserved for the help. “Daniel takes his medications at 8:00 a.m., noon, 4:00 p.m., and 8:00 p.m.”

“I’ve organized everything in this chart,” She handed me a laminated schedule. “Follow it exactly.”

“He also needs to eat three meals a day, though he usually doesn’t have much appetite. Make sure he drinks plenty of water.”

I looked at the medication chart. There were 23 different pills across four doses.

I recognized several as benzodiazepines and sedatives. Others I’d have to research.

“What’s his diagnosis?” I asked in Helen’s voice.

“The doctors aren’t sure yet. They’re running more tests.”

Vivien’s voice was smooth and practiced. “But between you and me, Helen, I think he’s declining rapidly. I’m afraid…”

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, though there were no actual tears. “I’m afraid I’ll lose him soon.”

I wanted to grab her by her perfectly styled hair and drag her to the police station right then. Instead, I nodded sympathetically.

“I’ll take good care of him, dear. Don’t you worry.”

Vivien left for work every day at 7:30. She wouldn’t return until 6:00 p.m. or later.

That gave me over 10 hours alone with Daniel. The first morning, I woke him gently at 6:00 a.m.

He looked terrible—pale and gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t recognize me, which hurt even though I expected it.

“Time for breakfast, Mr. Hartwell,” I said softly.

“Where’s Vivien?” His words were slurred.

“At work, dear. I’m Helen, your new caregiver. Let me help you to the bathroom.”

I supported him as he shuffled to the bathroom. His hands shook badly.

This close, I could see needle marks on his arms, partially hidden by his long-sleeved shirt. My blood ran cold.

She wasn’t just drugging him orally. After he was settled at the kitchen table, I made him breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice.

Then I got the morning medications. Here’s what Vivien didn’t know: I had switched out the pill organizers.

Rita had helped me buy identical ones the night before. Using the pill identification guide, I had replaced every sedative and benzodiazepine with vitamin supplements that looked similar.

The legitimate medications, like blood pressure pills and vitamins, I left alone. I handed Daniel the pills.

He took them without question, washing them down with water. Then I waited.

By day three, I saw changes. Daniel’s speech was clearer, and his hands shook less.

He stayed awake for longer periods and started asking questions. “Helen, how long have i been sick?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Hartwell. Why do you ask?”

“I feel different. Better, maybe. But I can’t remember.”

He pressed his palms to his temples. “Everything’s so fuzzy.”

“That’s normal with your condition,” I lied, hating myself, but I needed more time and more evidence.

I documented everything. I set up a hidden camera in the bedroom and another in the kitchen.

I kept a detailed log of Daniel’s real medications versus what Vivien claimed he needed. I photographed the needle marks.

I collected pill bottles from the trash, carefully noting dates and dosages. At night, after Vivien came home, I became Helen again—shuffling, subservient, and practically invisible.

I’d report that Daniel had a difficult day and that he was confused and agitated. This pleased Vivien.

She’d nod and make concerned noises, then go upstairs to her office, where she spent hours on her laptop.

Secrets on the Hard Drive

One night, I snuck into her office while she was showering. Her laptop was unlocked.

I plugged in a USB drive and copied her entire hard drive—bank records, emails, everything. Rita had given me software that made it quick and untraceable.

What I found made me physically ill. There were emails to her lover, a man named Brad.

They’d been having an affair for two years, which started before she even met Daniel. The emails detailed their plan.

They would marry someone wealthy but older, someone who could be managed. They would drug them slowly and transfer the assets.

They’d wait for them to die or have them declared incompetent and institutionalized. Then they would split the money and disappear together.

Daniel wasn’t Vivien’s first target. There had been another man three years before Daniel.