My Grandson Moved In To Help With My Alzheimer’s. Then I Found A Folder Labeled ‘gold Clips’ Containing Videos Of Me Crying Over My Dead Wife. How Do I Get Him Out?
The Evidence
Further back in the notebook, I found what I was looking for: passwords. He’d written them down old school, probably not trusting password managers. I found the one labeled “Laptop” and logged in. His desktop background was a photo of us from last Christmas, me and Tyler with Santa hats on, both grinning. The image made my chest hurt.
I opened his browser. Email first. I skimmed through conversations with Madison the manager about brand deals, sponsorship opportunities, merchandise ideas. One email chain was titled “Expansion Strategy.”
Madison had written: “We should bring in another family member. Your mom maybe? The concerned daughter angle would kill. Two perspectives of caregiving content. Double the emotional punch.”
Tyler’s response: “Working on it. Mom’s hesitant about the camera stuff but I think I can convince her. Maybe frame it as spreading awareness about Alzheimer’s.”
My daughter. He was trying to rope my daughter into this.
I found the TikTok data folder next: drafts, scheduled posts, raw footage. Hours and hours of raw footage. I was in almost every file: eating breakfast, napping, wandering around looking for something. There were clips I didn’t remember being recorded at all, which made sense given the hidden cameras.
One folder was labeled “Gold Clips.” I clicked on it. These were the moments Tyler thought were most exploitable. Me calling Eleanor’s name. Me standing in the garage holding my old golf clubs, crying quietly. Me having a moment of clarity, staring at a photo of Eleanor, whispering “I miss you so much.” That last one hadn’t been posted yet; the file was dated 3 days ago.
I copied everything, all of it. I dragged folders onto a USB drive I found in Eleanor’s old desk, the one she used to use for school photos before everything went digital. It took 20 minutes. I kept glancing at the doorway expecting Tyler to walk in, but the house stayed quiet. When the transfer finished, I shut down the laptop exactly how I’d found it, closed the notebook to the same page, and went back upstairs. I put the USB drive in my sock drawer under the thick wool socks Eleanor had knitted for me the winter before she died. Then I sat on my bed and shook—just shook like I had palsy—until the shaking stopped on its own and was replaced by something colder, something harder.
Tyler came home around 5. I heard him bounding up the stairs, that young person energy I’d never have again. He knocked on my door.
“Grandpa, you awake?”
I opened the door. He was holding a bag from my favorite deli.
“Got you a pastrami sandwich. The one you like with the brown mustard.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the bag.
Our hands touched briefly. His skin was smooth, young; mine was spotted and papery. When had I gotten so old?
“You feeling better? You seemed off this morning.”
“Just tired,” I said. “You know how it is.”
He smiled that easy Tyler smile. “Yeah. Hey, listen, some friends might come by later this week to film a thing. Is that okay? It’s for a project.”
“What kind of project?”
“Just a documentary thing about caregiving. Raising awareness, you know. Nothing big.”
Nothing big. He was so casual about it, so comfortable with the lying.
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Grandpa. You’re the best.”
He turned to go, then looked back. “Oh, and I took down those cameras like you asked. Didn’t want you uncomfortable in your own house.”
He hadn’t taken them down. I’d checked earlier. They were all still there, just repositioned slightly. More lies.
“Appreciate it,” I said, and closed the door.
A Real Ally
Thursday morning, Diane arrived at 9:30 like always. I heard Tyler greeting her downstairs, playing the devoted grandson.
“He’s been a little off the last couple days,” Tyler was saying. “More confused than usual. I’m getting worried.”
Building his narrative, making sure she’d see what he wanted her to see. Diane came upstairs and knocked.
“Richard? It’s Diane. Can I come in?”
“Please,” I said.
She opened the door and stepped in, carrying her usual medical bag. She took one look at my face and frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Close the door,” I said quietly.
She did, then sat in the chair by the window.
“Richard, you’re scaring me. Are you having chest pains? Dizziness?”
“I need to show you something,” I said. “But you have to promise you won’t react.”
“Not where he can hear.”
“Where who can hear?”
“Tyler.”
I showed her everything. The USB drive contents on my old desktop computer, the monitor turned away from the door just in case. The TikTok account, the videos, the notebook photos I’d taken with my phone, the emails—all of it. Diane watched in silence, her expression changing from concerned to confused to horrified.
The video of me crying over Eleanor’s photo—the one labeled “Gold Clips”—that’s when she put her hand over her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Richard, this is… this is elder abuse. This is exploitation.”
“I know.”
“We need to call the police right now.”
“Wait,” I said. “I need to think about this. He’s my grandson. Rachel’s son.”
“He’s monetizing your illness without your consent. He’s filming you in the bathroom. Richard, these videos have millions of views. Millions of people have watched your private moments. You’re suffering without you even knowing.”
She wasn’t wrong, but calling the police meant it became real in a way I wasn’t ready for. It meant my daughter would know. It meant the whole family would implode—what was left of it, anyway.
“I need more time,” I said.
Diane stood up, pacing the small space between the bed and the window.
“Okay. Okay. But we’re documenting this. Official medical records. I’m noting that I observed evidence of potential exploitation and that you’re cognitively aware enough to understand what’s happening to you. That protects you legally.”
“He has cameras everywhere,” I said. “He’ll know if I start acting different.”
“Then we don’t change anything yet. But Richard, I’m not leaving you alone with this. I’m coming back tomorrow, not as your nurse, as your friend. We’re going to figure this out.”
Something in my chest loosened slightly. Not relief exactly, but something close. I wasn’t alone anymore.
“Why would you do that?” I asked. “Why help me like this?”
She sat back down, her expression soft.
“My dad had Parkinson’s toward the end. He was completely dependent on care. My brother, his only son, took advantage. Moved him to a cheaper facility and kept the difference in Dad’s pension for himself. By the time I found out, Dad was living in a place with bed sores and dehydration. I’ve never forgiven myself for not checking sooner, for not being more suspicious. So yeah, I’m helping you. Nobody deserves this, but especially not someone who can’t fully fight back alone.”
“I can fight,” I said. “I’m not gone yet.”
She smiled. “No you’re not. And we’re going to make sure everyone knows it.”
