My Daughter Makes Me A Special Coffee Every Morning To Help With My Memory Loss. I Thought She Was An Angel Until My Doctor Called With A Terrifying Blood Test Result. Now I Am Watching Her Through A Hidden Camera, And I Cannot Believe What She Just Dropped Into My Mug.

The Evidence

That night at dinner I barely touched my food.

“Just not hungry,”

I said.

“Getting old. You need to eat, Dad, keep your strength up.”

Andrea cut my steak for me like I was a child. I saw Kyle watching me, calculating something.

When they went to bed, I opened the app on my phone. Watched the kitchen camera. Watched Andrea making my coffee that morning, the way she always did. And then, after she put the filter in and added the grounds, she reached into her pocket.

She pulled out a small plastic bag with white powder, tapped it into the coffee grounds, stirred it with her finger, put the bag back in her pocket.

I had to run to the bathroom. I threw up until there was nothing left.

The next morning I pretended to drink the coffee. Held the cup to my lips, tilted it but didn’t swallow. When Andrea went upstairs, I poured it down the sink. I did the same thing the next day, and the next.

By the end of the week, I was thinking clearly for the first time in months. The fog was lifting. I realized how much I’d lost, how vulnerable I’d been.

“Dad, I want to talk about those power of attorney papers again,”

Andrea said at breakfast on Saturday.

“I really think it’s important.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Dad, you’re not thinking clearly. That’s the whole point. Let me help you.”

“I said I’ll think about it.”

Her expression hardened for just a second, then the concerned daughter mask slipped back on.

“Okay, take your time.”

That afternoon while they were out looking at a house Andrea was trying to sell, I went through their bedroom. I felt dirty doing it, but I needed to know.

In Kyle’s sock drawer, under the rolled up argyles, I found folders. Credit card statements maxed out, every single one. Personal loans in default. A notice from their bank, foreclosure proceedings on their condo.

They were broke. Worse than broke; drowning. And I owned a house worth half a million dollars, had a pension of $4,000 a month, had Helen’s life insurance money $200,000 sitting in savings.

In Andrea’s nightstand I found printouts from legal websites: How to get power of attorney for elderly parent. Signs of dementia in aging parents. When is someone incompetent to manage their affairs.

She’d been researching this. Planning it. I heard the garage door. I put everything back exactly as I’d found it.

At dinner, Kyle was more talkative than usual.

“Richard, I’ve been thinking. You’ve got this big house, all this property. Have you thought about your estate planning?”

“I’ve got a will.”

“Yeah, but that’s not enough. Tax implications, probate, all that mess. You should really consider putting some assets in Andrea’s name now. Make things easier later.”

“Kyle,”

Andrea said, a warning in her voice.

“I’m just trying to help. It’s smart financial planning.”

I looked at my daughter. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“I’ll think about it,”

I said.

That night I called Vinnie.

“I’ve got them on camera. Multiple times.”

“Good. Call this number tomorrow.”

He gave me a name: Patricia Delgado, elder abuse attorney.

“She’s expecting you.”

“Vinnie, I don’t know if I can do this. She’s my daughter.”

“And she’s poisoning you. Richard, listen to me. What do you think happens when you actually do become incompetent? When you’re drooling in a chair somewhere and she has complete control? You think she stops? You think they take care of you?”

His voice softened.

“Helen would want you to protect yourself.”

He was right. Helen always saw through people. She’d seen through Kyle. If she were here, she’d tell me to fight.

The Confrontation

I met Patricia Delgado the next day. Showed her everything: the pharmacy records, the videos, the financial documents I’d photographed.

“This is elder abuse,”

she said.

“Financial exploitation, fraud, possibly attempted theft. We can prosecute.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“I understand, but Mr. Castellano, this doesn’t stop until you stop it. And it usually gets worse.”

She pulled out a file.

“I’ve been doing this for 15 years. I’ve seen cases where the adult child empties the accounts, sells the house, puts the parent in the cheapest facility possible, and disappears. I’ve seen cases where they keep upping the drugs until the parent dies and they inherit everything. Which do you think is happening here?”

I couldn’t answer.

“The choice is yours,”

Patricia said.

“But choose soon, because the next time she pushes those papers in front of you, you might not be clear-headed enough to say no.”

That night was my birthday dinner. The reservation Andrea had made. Kyle wore his best suit. Andrea wore the pearl necklace Helen had given her for her graduation.

We sat in a booth at the back of the steakhouse.

“Dad, we wanted to talk to you about something,”

Andrea said after we’d ordered.

Here it comes, I thought.

“Kyle and I have been thinking. This house, it’s too much for you. The maintenance, the yard work, the memories. It might be time to sell it. Downsize to something more manageable.”

“You want me to sell Helen’s house?”

“It’s not healthy, Dad, holding on to the past. We could find you a nice condo. One floor, no stairs, easier for you.”

“And what happens to the money from the house?”

Kyle leaned in.

“We invest it. I’ve got some opportunities right now. Tech startups, cryptocurrency. We could double your money in a year.”

“Triple it,”

Andrea added.

I looked at them both. My daughter, her husband. They were so earnest, so convincing. If I didn’t know what I knew, I might have believed them.

“No,”

I said.

Andrea blinked.

“What?”

“No. I’m not selling Helen’s house. I’m not giving you power of attorney. I’m not investing anything.”

Kyle’s face darkened.

“Richard, that’s the confusion talking. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m thinking perfectly clearly.”

I pulled out my phone, set it on the table, opened the app, pressed play on the video from that morning. Andrea’s hand reaching into her pocket. The powder going into my coffee.

Andrea went white. Kyle grabbed for the phone. I pulled it back.

“That’s nothing,”

Andrea said quickly.

“That’s just supplements. Vitamins for your health.”

“Lorazepam isn’t a vitamin.”

She froze.

“I’ve had the coffee tested. I’ve had blood work done. I know everything.”

I looked at my daughter.

“Why?”

She started crying.

“Dad, you don’t understand. We’re in trouble. Real trouble. We’re about to lose everything. The condo, our credit, everything. We just needed some time. Just enough to get back on our feet.”

“So you decided to drug me? Make me think I was losing my mind? Take everything Helen and I worked for?”

“We were going to pay you back.”

“No you weren’t.”

I kept my voice steady.

“You were going to keep me drugged until I signed those papers. Then you were going to drain my accounts, sell my house, and probably put me in some cheap nursing home. And when the money ran out, then what? What was the plan then, Andrea?”

She couldn’t answer. She just kept crying.

Kyle stood up.

“You can’t prove any of this.”

“I have video of her drugging me, pharmacy records showing forged prescriptions, your financial statements showing your motive, and witnesses.”

I gestured to the restaurant. Patricia Delgado was sitting three tables away watching. Next to her was a police officer I knew from the department.

“It’s over, Kyle.”

He ran. Made it about 20 ft before the officer caught him.

Andrea just sat there sobbing.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry. We were desperate. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have asked for help. I would have helped you.”

“I was too ashamed.”

She looked up at me.

“Kyle made some bad investments. Lost everything. I thought if we could just get a little money we could fix it.”

“We could make it right by destroying me?”

She had no answer for that.

The arrest happened quietly. The restaurant staff barely noticed. Patricia handled everything professionally.

I watched them put handcuffs on my daughter. My little girl. The one I’d taught to ride a bike. The one who’d worn Helen’s wedding veil at her own wedding.

“I’m sorry, Dad,”

she said as they led her away.

“I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.