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 Truth Confirmed

The email arrived at 7:30 Tuesday morning while I was sitting at my kitchen table with coffee I couldn’t taste and toast I couldn’t eat.

Subject: Results. Patient ID Number P 2024928. From: Dr. Sarah Mitchell, Pacific Northwest Genetics Laboratory.

My hand shook as I clicked to open it. The PDF downloaded slowly, or maybe it just felt slow because every second was an eternity. Finally, the document filled my screen.

Paternity Test Results. Confidential. Alleged Grandfather: Philip James Peton. Child: Clara Rose Warner. Date of Collection: September 29th, 2024. Date of Analysis: October 1st, 2024.

I scrolled down, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. Past the technical details about genetic markers and probability calculations, past the laboratory certification, to the conclusion at the bottom of the page.

Conclusion: Based on the genetic analysis of the submitted samples, the probability that Philip James Peton is the biological grandfather of Clara Rose Warner is 99.97%.

I sat back in my chair and stared at the screen. 99.97%. Not a possibility. Not a likelihood. A certainty. Clara was my granddaughter.

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but they kept coming. I hadn’t cried this much since Maryanne’s funeral. And now I couldn’t seem to stop. My granddaughter. Maryanne’s granddaughter.

The thought of Maryanne hit me like a physical blow. I pushed away from the computer and walked to the living room, to the mantle where her photograph still sat in its silver frame. She was smiling at the camera, her hair caught by wind, standing in the garden she’d loved so much.

“We have a granddaughter,” I whispered to the photograph. “Her name is Clara.”

I remembered the conversations we’d had late at night when Allison was young. Maryanne would talk about the future, about grandchildren we’d spoil, holidays we’d host, the family we’d build together across generations.

“I wish Allison would give us a grandchild someday,” she’d said once, not long before she died. We’d been sitting on the porch watching the sunset. “I want to see what kind of mother she’ll be. I want to teach her grandbaby all the things I taught her.”

“You will,” I’d promised, holding her hand.

But that was three years ago. And now Maryanne was gone, and the granddaughter she’d wished for had been alive this whole time. Seven years old, with dark hair and hazel eyes and a smile that could light up a room. And I’d never known she existed.

I pulled out my phone and called Jacob. He answered on the first ring.

“Did you get the results?” His voice was tight.

“99.97%,” I said. “Clara is my granddaughter.”

Silence. Then I heard him exhale a long, shaky breath that might have been a sob.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “I mean, we knew. But knowing for certain is different.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. “What do we do now?”

It was the same question I’d been asking myself for the past 10 minutes.

“We need to figure out why Allison abandoned Clara and what she’s planning now that might connect to it. Do you think she knows we’re investigating?”

“I don’t know, but we need to be careful. If she realizes we’ve made the connection…” I didn’t finish the sentence. We both knew what Allison was capable of.

“Should we tell Clara?” Jacob asked quietly. “That you’re her grandfather?”

The question made my chest ache. I wanted to say yes. Wanted to tell that beautiful little girl that she had family. That she wasn’t just the daughter of a mother who’d abandoned her. She was my granddaughter. Maryanne’s legacy. Part of a family that would love her unconditionally. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

“She’s seven years old,” I said. “And she’s already been through so much. If we tell her now, before we know what Allison’s planning, before we can protect her…” I stopped, swallowed hard. “Let’s keep her safe first. Then we’ll figure out how to tell her the truth.”

“You’re right.” Jacob’s voice was rough. “God, I hate that you’re right, but you are. Did you send me the scan of Clara’s birth certificate?”

“Check your email. I sent it this morning.”

I pulled up my inbox on the computer. There it was. Another PDF. This one a copy of an Oregon State birth certificate. I opened it.

Certificate of Live Birth. State of Oregon. Child’s Name: Clara Rose Warner. Date of Birth: February 14th, 2017. Place of Birth: Providence Portland Medical Center, Portland, Oregon. Mother’s Name: Elena Margaret Warner. Mother’s Age: 22. Stated Father’s Name: Jacob Thomas Warner. Father’s Age: 28.

I stared at the mother’s name. Elena Margaret Warner. Margaret. Allison’s full name was Allison Margaret Peton. The middle name had come from Maryanne’s mother, a family tradition she’d been so proud of. And Allison had given that name to the alias she’d used to seduce Jacob. As if even while lying about everything else, she couldn’t quite erase who she really was.

“The middle name,” I said to Jacob. “Did you notice? Margaret.”

“Yeah, I saw that. That’s Allison’s middle name. Allison Margaret Peton. So she kept part of her real identity,” Jacob said slowly. “Even while lying about everything else. Maybe she couldn’t help it. Or maybe…”

I studied the birth certificate again. “Maybe she wanted to leave a trail. Some part of her that could be found if anyone looked hard enough.”

“But you didn’t look. Until now.”

“No.” The word tasted bitter. “I didn’t.”

I printed out the birth certificate and the DNA results, then filed them carefully in a folder I labeled simply: Clara. Evidence, but also something more. Proof of a connection I should have known about seven years ago.

Valentine’s Day. Clara had been born on Valentine’s Day. Two weeks before Allison abandoned her. Two weeks before she came back to Greenwood Hills and slipped back into her old life as if nothing had happened. What had those two weeks been like? Had Allison held her baby? Fed her? Looked at Clara’s face and felt anything at all? Or had she already been planning her escape?

I looked at Maryanne’s photograph again. “I’ll protect her,” I promised. “I’ll make sure Clara knows she’s loved. That she belongs to a family.”

Even if that family was broken. Even if the person who should have loved Clara most had thrown her away.

My phone buzzed. A text from Jacob. “Thank you for wanting to be her grandfather. For not giving up.”

I typed back: “She’s family. That’s all that matters.”

And it was true. Whatever Allison had done, whatever she was planning, Clara was innocent. She was seven years old and loved dinosaurs and drew pictures for strangers and called people grandpa with heartbreaking ease. She was my granddaughter, and I would protect her. I just didn’t know yet what I’d have to protect her from.