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 Dinner Table

That afternoon, Tyler was in a good mood. He’d gotten a brand deal, he told me over dinner. Some supplement company wanted him to promote their product in his videos.

“Brain health supplements,” he said with zero irony. “They think my audience would connect with it given the Alzheimer’s awareness stuff.”

Alzheimer’s awareness stuff. As if he was doing a public service.

“That’s great,” I said, pushing pasta around my plate.

“It’s pretty good money actually. Going to help me move out eventually. Get my own place once you’re more… you know… stable.”

Once I was more gone, he meant. Once I degraded enough that he could justify putting me in a home and keeping the house.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tyler continued. “Maybe we should do some videos together? Like you talking directly to camera about your experience. Real raw stuff. People would love that.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Come on, Grandpa. It would be inspiring. Show people that Alzheimer’s patients are still people, you know?”

The gall of it. The absolute gall.

“Tyler,” I said carefully. “Those videos you’ve been posting on TikTok under Gramps World.”

He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. The mask slipped for just a second and I saw something cold underneath. Then it was back, the earnest grandson expression.

“You saw those?”

“I did.”

“Grandpa, I can explain. It started as a way to document our journey, to help other families going through the same thing. The money isn’t even that much. I barely make anything.”

“You have 273 Patreon supporters,” I interrupted. “That’s not barely anything.”

He set his fork down.

“Okay, you’re right. I should have told you. But honestly? You wouldn’t have understood. You would have said no. And these videos are helping people. Read the comments. Families dealing with Alzheimer’s saying how much it helps them to see our story.”

“Our story? As if we were collaborators? You put cameras in my bathroom,” I said.

“That was for safety. That’s all. I would never post anything inappropriate.”

“You posted me crying over my dead wife.”

“That hasn’t gone live yet,” he said, and then realized what he’d admitted.

We sat in silence. The kitchen clock ticked loudly. Outside, a dog barked.

“Are you going to tell Mom?” Tyler finally asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Because if you do, she’s not going to understand either. She’s going to think I’m taking advantage, but I’m not. Everything I do is for you. To take care of you.”

“Take down the videos,” I said.

“Grandpa…”

“Take them down. Delete the account. All of it.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying me, really looking at me for the first time in months.

“Maybe I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my career now. I have contracts, sponsorships. People depend on this content. I can’t just delete everything.”

“People depend on watching me forget my wife is dead?”

“That’s not fair,” he said, voice rising. “You’re twisting it. I show reality. I show what it’s really like. That’s valuable.”

“It’s my reality. Not yours to sell.”

“You’re sick, Grandpa. You don’t always understand what’s happening. I’m making decisions for both of us.”

There it was. The truth underneath all the justifications. He thought because I had Alzheimer’s, I couldn’t make my own choices, couldn’t protect myself, was just content to be mined.

“Get out,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“Get out of my house. Pack your things and leave.”

“Grandpa, you can’t live alone. You need help.”

“I’ll get help. Not from you. Get out.”

He stood up, chair scraping loud against the floor.

“Fine. But you’re making a mistake. A big one. And when you can’t remember how to cook or where you are or what day it is, don’t come crying to me.”

“I won’t,” I said.

He left the kitchen. I heard him on the stairs, in his room slamming drawers. My hands were shaking again but I kept them flat on the table, pressing down until they stopped.

20 minutes later he came back downstairs with his suitcases and that duffel bag of electronics. He stopped in the kitchen doorway.

“I’m going to Mom’s place in Seattle for a few days to cool off. But Grandpa, I need you to think about this. Really think about it. Without me here, something could happen to you. You could fall, have an episode, and nobody would know until it was too late.”

It was a threat dressed up as concern. We both knew it.

“Goodbye Tyler,” I said.

He left, the door closed, his car started and pulled away. The house was quiet. I sat at that kitchen table for a long time, just breathing. Then I called Diane.

“He’s gone,” I told her when she answered. “I kicked him out.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Scared,” I admitted. “But sure. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense. Listen, I’m coming over. Don’t argue. I’ll bring dinner and we’ll make a plan.”

The Counterstrike

She showed up 40 minutes later with Chinese takeout and a determined expression. We sat in the living room, Eleanor’s old quilt over my lap, and talked through options.

“You could file a police report,” Diane said. “What he did might constitute several crimes: invasion of privacy, exploitation of a vulnerable adult, potentially fraud if he’s making money under false pretenses.”

“Would anything come of it?”

She hesitated. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s new territory legally. Social media exploitation of family members, the laws haven’t caught up yet.”

“What else?”

“Civil suit. Sue for damages, emotional distress, unauthorized use of likeness. That has a better chance of succeeding, but it’s expensive and lengthy.”

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my time on Earth in courtrooms,” I said.

“Then there’s the public option. Go public yourself. Tell your side. Take away his narrative control.”

That one made me pause.

“How?”

“Make your own video. Explain what happened. Show the evidence. Let people judge for themselves. His followers deserve to know the truth about what they’ve been watching.”

It felt dangerous exposing my own grandson publicly, but he’d exposed me to millions without consent. Turnabout was fair play.

“I don’t know how to do all that,” I said. “The technical stuff.”

“I do,” Diane said. “My daughter’s a film major. She’ll help. We’ll do this right.”

Over the next 3 days, we put together what Diane called my testimony. We filmed it in the living room, just me sitting in Eleanor’s favorite chair, talking directly to camera. No music, no editing tricks, just truth. I explained who I was, showed my diagnosis papers, explained how Tyler had moved in under false pretenses, showed the evidence from his computer, the videos, the financial records, read some of the worst comments out loud, and explained how it felt to discover millions of people had been watching my deteriorating condition as entertainment.

“I’m not telling you this to get sympathy,” I said to the camera. “I’m telling you this because Tyler’s not the only one doing this. There are others out there filming vulnerable family members, monetizing their confusion, their pain, their private moments. And we let it happen because we call it ‘content’ and ‘raising awareness’ instead of what it really is: exploitation, abuse, entertainment built on human suffering.”

I paused, looked directly at the lens.

“I’m 67 years old. I have Alzheimer’s. But I’m still here. I’m still a person. I still have dignity. And I’m still capable of fighting for myself. If you’ve been watching Tyler’s videos, please understand that wasn’t reality. That was selected clips designed to make you feel emotions that would keep you watching, that would make him money. Every view, every like, every share, you were participating in my exploitation without knowing it.”

Diane’s daughter edited it down to 7 minutes. We made a TikTok account under my name, Richard Harrison, posted the video, added a simple caption: “The truth about Gramps World. Please share.” Then we waited.