My Daughter Told Everyone I Have Dementia To Steal My Fortune. Then I Found The Drugs She Was Putting In My Coffee. What Should My Next Move Be?

Shadows of the Past

Dawn found me at my kitchen table with Clara’s drawing spread before me and coffee growing cold in my hands. I’d given up on sleep around four when the questions became louder than the silence. I climbed to my study and pulled the photo albums from the top shelf, the ones I’d hidden after Maryanne died. The one labeled Allison Childhood felt heavy in my hands.

On the third page: Allison’s seventh birthday party. Yellow dress dotted with sunflowers. Chocolate cake in her hands. Dark hair falling in waves, and that smile. Dimple in her left cheek, but not her right. Nose crinkling. Head tilted just so.

Clara’s smile exactly.

I turned pages with trembling fingers. Six years old, eight… all showed that same face, those same features I’d seen last night in a little girl wearing a bee-covered raincoat. The resemblance wasn’t similar; it was identical.

Another photograph: Allison at seven, sitting on my shoulders at a Fourth of July parade, completely trusting I’d never let her fall. When had we lost that? When had my daughter stopped looking at me with trust? I knew the answer. The day Maryanne collapsed in the garden. Massive stroke, sudden, mercifully quick—but nothing merciful about the hole it left.

Maryanne had been the glue holding our family together. Without her, Allison and I became strangers speaking different languages. Allison moved out six months after the funeral. We had dinner once a month, stiff affairs discussing business and weather and everything except what mattered. I told myself she needed space to grieve. But what if I’d been wrong?

My phone buzzed. Jacob’s text.

“Hope you’re feeling better this morning. Clara wanted me to make sure you got home safely.”

I typed back: “I’m fine. Thank you again.”

His response: “Anytime. Clara’s already planning your next birthday party.”

Despite everything, I smiled. Then I pulled up Allison’s contact and hit call. Straight to voicemail again.

“It’s Dad,” I said. “We need to talk. Call me back.”

The doorbell rang before I could say more. Raymond Foster stood on my porch holding a casserole dish.

“Morning, Phil. Martha’s lasagna.”

We settled at the kitchen table with coffee. Raymond talked about the Seahawks until he said something that made me freeze.

“Allison stopped by yesterday. Looking for you.”

I set down my cup carefully. “She was here? Around three?”

“Said she’d been trying to call.” He studied me. “She seemed worried. Asked if I’d noticed anything off about you lately.”

“Off?”

“To her word. Wanted to know if you’d been forgetful. If you’d said or done anything unusual.” Raymond paused. “I got the impression she was hoping I’d say something different.”

The coffee turned to acid. “What did you tell her?”

“The truth. That you seem sharp as always.” His eyes narrowed. “Phil, what’s going on?”

“If someone wanted to make it look like I was incompetent, what would they need?”

“Jesus.” Raymond leaned back. “Medical records. Testimony from people close to you. Documentation of confusion, memory loss, poor judgment.” He fixed me with a hard look. “Your own daughter?”

“Maybe I’m paranoid.”

“Are you?”

I didn’t answer. The restaurant incident, the questions to neighbors, the careful construction of a narrative about my declining mental state—it all fit too perfectly.

The Missing Seven Years

After Raymond left, I pulled out Jacob’s business card. Portland, Oregon.

Clara’s mother left seven years ago. Seven years ago was 2017. The same year Allison took that sabbatical from Peton Holdings. Eight months of “finding herself.” She’d come back different. Harder, colder, more focused on business.

What if she hadn’t been traveling? What if she’d been in Portland?

I opened my laptop and searched: Portland, Oregon mother abandons baby 2017.

The third result: a human interest story from The Oregonian, March 2017. Single father raises newborn after mother’s disappearance. The article was short. A young software developer named Jacob Warner whose girlfriend left two weeks after giving birth. The girlfriend’s name: Elena Warner. Though the reporter noted Warner might not have been her real last name.

Elena. Not Allison. But the timeline matched. February 2017. When Allison would have been in Portland. The article said Elena claimed to be a 22-year-old college student, though Jacob suspected she was older. Allison was 30 in 2017.

I sat back, heart hammering. The photo album still lay open on the table. Seven-year-old Allison grinning with that dimpled smile. I looked from the photograph to Jacob’s business card to the newspaper article on my screen. The resemblance was undeniable. The timeline matched perfectly. And the woman who’d abandoned Jacob and Clara was exactly the age Allison would have been, in exactly the city where Allison had found herself.

Elena Warner. Allison Margaret Peton. Even the initials were almost the same.

I thought about Allison’s coldness these past three years. Her sudden interest in my health, my memory, my confusion. The canceled reservation at the Lexington Room. Raymond’s revelation that she’d been asking neighbors about my mental state. She wasn’t just stealing from me or trying to gain control of my assets; she was trying to bury a secret. A seven-year-old secret with dark hair and a dimpled smile who called strangers grandpa without hesitation.

My hands shook as I closed the laptop. I needed more than suspicions and circumstantial evidence. I needed proof. I needed to know exactly what Allison had been doing, what she was planning, how deep this deception went. And I needed to know if Jacob had any idea who Elena really was. But first, I needed to see what else my daughter might have left behind. What other evidence she’d planted or stolen. What other pieces of this puzzle were hidden in my own home.