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?

The Evidence of Betrayal

I looked at the clock. 11:47 a.m. The whole morning had vanished while I’d been lost in photographs and newspaper archives and terrible realizations. I stood up, my knees protesting, and looked around my study at the filing cabinets full of decades of documents, at the safe hidden behind Maryanne’s favorite painting, at the security camera mounted discreetly in the corner.

If Allison had been building a case against me, there would be evidence. Medical records I’d never seen. Forged documents. Things missing that should be here. The timeline matched, the resemblance was undeniable, and if I was right about what I suspected, then everything I thought I knew about my daughter was a lie. Suspicion was one thing; proof was another.

I spent the rest of Saturday trying to convince myself I was wrong, that the coincidences meant nothing. But by 2:00 in the morning, lying awake in the dark, I knew I couldn’t wait until daylight. I had to know what else Allison had been hiding.

I went downstairs to my study, the house silent except for the creak of floorboards. If Allison had been building a case to have me declared incompetent, there would be evidence. And if she’d been careful enough to cancel my restaurant reservation and question my neighbors, she’d left a trail.

I moved to the wall safe hidden behind a painting of the Columbia River Gorge—Maryanne’s favorite. My hands shook as I spun the combination. Inside were the documents I’d organized for years: property deeds, stock certificates, insurance policies, bank statements. The statements should have been stacked neatly, one for each month. Instead, the folder was thin.

I spread them across my desk. January, February… then a gap. June, July, August. September was too recent. March, April, and May were missing. Three months gone. And those were the months when I’d started feeling foggy, when I’d begun doubting my own memory.

I called the bank’s 24-hour service line. After security questions, the representative returned.

“Mr. Peton, there are two authorized users. Yourself and Allison Peton. Added six months ago with full privileges.”

My stomach dropped. “I didn’t authorize that.”

“Our records show you came into the branch. Your signature is on file.”

I hadn’t been to the bank in over a year. Not since Maryanne died.

“Any unusual withdrawals?” I asked.

“There have been several transfers to another institution. Approximately $85,000 over four months.”

$85,000. My money taken while I trusted her. I ended the call and sat in the dark, breathing slowly.

Then I went to the master bathroom. The medicine cabinet held the usual bottles: blood pressure pills, vitamins, allergy medication. But pushed to the back was one I didn’t recognize. Lorazepam. 2 milligrams. Take one tablet as needed for anxiety. The prescription was in my name, filled two months ago at a pharmacy I’d never visited. Prescribing physician: Dr. Brady Thornton. The bottle was nearly empty.

I had never taken a single pill. I’d never seen it before.

Then I remembered. Two months ago, Allison had started bringing dinner twice a week. “You shouldn’t eat alone, Dad,” she’d said. “Thoughtful meals. Careful portions.” And after every dinner, I’d felt exhausted, barely able to climb the stairs. I’d blamed age and grief. But what if it hadn’t been natural?

I went to Maryanne’s dressing room and opened the antique jewelry box from her grandmother. Inside were the pieces she cherished: pearls, a garnet ring, the diamond earrings from our anniversary. The velvet compartment where the Victorian diamond brooch belonged was empty. That brooch was worth at least $50,000. I knew it had been there three months ago. I was certain.

My hands shook as I returned to the study and opened the home security system. The cameras stored footage for 90 days. I scrolled through the nights. Six weeks ago, 11:22 p.m. The footage jumped to 11:47. 25 minutes missing. Five weeks ago, 6:43 p.m. Eight minutes gone. Three weeks ago, 2:17 a.m. 15 minutes erased. Someone had been in my house deleting evidence. And I knew who.

I stared at the screen, sick with clarity. My daughter, the child I raised, the woman I trusted, had been stealing from me, drugging me, and constructing a story of my mental decline. But why go this far? If she wanted money, I would have given it. If she wanted the company, we could have planned it.

Unless it wasn’t just about money. Unless it was about stopping me from asking questions. From discovering what she’d done seven years ago in Portland. From finding out about Clara.

My gaze fell to the wastebasket. On top was a document I didn’t remember throwing away. Psychiatric Evaluation. Confidential. Patient: Philip James Peton. Age 70. Evaluating Physician: Brady Thornton, MD. It diagnosed early-stage dementia and recommended immediate guardianship.

I searched the Oregon Medical Board. No results. I called hospitals in Portland. No Dr. Brady Thornton had ever existed. The evaluation was a forgery.

Sitting there, I finally understood Allison’s plan. She wasn’t just stealing money; she was building a legal case to have me declared incompetent. To take control of everything I owned. To put me somewhere I couldn’t interfere. And Clara was the reason. Sweet Clara, who’d called me Grandpa Philip, who’d drawn me that picture. She was the secret Allison needed buried. Proof of a past she’d erased. A child she’d abandoned. A lie she’d lived for seven years.

If I uncovered the truth, if I connected Elena to Allison, everything would collapse. She needed me silenced, controlled, declared unfit before I could expose it all. My daughter was trying to destroy me, and at last, I understood why.

The realization settled slowly like ice in my chest. Every doubt I’d brushed aside, every moment I’d laughed at myself for forgetting, had been carefully engineered. Allison had layered deception on deception, trusting I would question myself before I ever questioned her. Grief made me vulnerable. Loneliness made me trusting. She had used both.

What frightened me most wasn’t the money or the jewelry; it was how close she’d come to succeeding. Another month and the paperwork would have been filed. My voice dismissed as confusion. I wasn’t losing my mind; I was being robbed of it. And now that I knew the truth, I also knew survival depended on patience, evidence, and choosing the right moment to act carefully.