My Son Is A Surgeon, But He’s Secretly Gaslighting Me To Steal My $12m Trust Fund. He And His Wife Are Hiding My Keys And Swapping My Meds To Make Me Look Insane. Today, They’re Taking Me To Court For A Guardianship Hearing. Little Do They Know, I’ve Been Recording Every Single Thing They Did In My Own House.
A Warning in the Ballroom
I adjusted my bow tie one last time before stepping into the grand ballroom of St. Catherine’s Hospital. The annual fundraiser gala was in full swing, champagne glasses clinking, orchestra playing softly, and colleagues I hadn’t seen in years mingling under the crystal chandeliers.
After 35 years as a cardiovascular surgeon, I’d retired two years ago, but these events still felt like home. Dr. Whitmore, a woman in a red gown, waved from across the room. I nodded politely, making my way toward the silent auction tables.
That’s when I felt a hand on my elbow, firm but gentle. I turned to find Dr. Raymond Chen, an old colleague from my residency days, but something was off. His face was pale, his eyes darting around the room nervously.
“Ry, I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Don’t react,”
he whispered, his grip tightening slightly.
“Just listen. The man by the bar in the navy suit. He’s been watching you for the past 20 minutes, taking photos, making calls.”
My blood ran cold. I started to turn my head, but Ray stopped me.
“Not yet. Walk with me to the balcony. Act natural.”
The Shadow in the Parking Garage
We moved through the crowd, my heart pounding. Once outside in the cool October air, Ry finally released my arm.
“Who is he?”
I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. Ry pulled out his phone, showing me a blurry photo he’d managed to take.
“I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before. Three days ago at the hospital. He was meeting with your son Daniel in the parking garage. Very secretive.”
I stared at the image: navy suit, slicked-back hair, expensive watch—the kind of man you hire when you need something done quietly.
“Why are you telling me this?”
I asked. Ray’s expression was grave.
“Because you were my mentor, Tom. You saved my career once when I made a mistake in the OR. I owe you.”
He paused.
“And because I’ve noticed things at the hospital. Questions being asked about you. About your mental state, your memory.”
The world seemed to tilt slightly.
“What kind of questions?”
“Jessica, your daughter-in-law, has been speaking to the hospital psychiatrist, Dr. Morrison. She’s been suggesting that you’ve been declining, forgetting things, acting confused.”
A Disturbing Pattern
I felt anger flare in my chest, but I forced myself to stay calm.
“That’s absurd. I’m 76, not senile.”
“I know that, but Tom, be careful. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Ry glanced back through the glass doors.
“The man’s gone now. He left right after we came out here. But watch your back.”
After Ry left, I stood alone on the balcony, my mind racing. My son Daniel and I had always had a complicated relationship. He’d followed in my footsteps, became a surgeon himself, but always seemed to be in my shadow.
When I retired, I’d moved into the guest house on his property at his insistence.
“It makes sense, Dad,”
he’d said.
“You’re alone since Mom passed. We have the space. Jessica loves having you around.”
But now, standing in the cold night air, I wondered if there was another reason they’d wanted me close. I decided not to confront them immediately. If something was truly wrong, I needed to understand what I was dealing with first.
Over the next few days, I began to pay attention—really pay attention—to the small things I’d been dismissing as coincidence.
The Gaslighting Begins
Tuesday morning, I couldn’t find my car keys. They eventually turned up in the refrigerator. I distinctly remembered placing them on the hook by the door, but Jessica laughed it off.
“Dad, you must have been distracted. It happens to everyone.”
Thursday, my medication was in the wrong bottle. I take blood pressure medication, have for years, but when I opened the container, I found aspirin instead. Daniel suggested I’d mixed them up myself.
“You’re taking five different pills, Dad. Easy mistake.”
Friday, I discovered that my bank statement, which I’d been reviewing the night before, was missing from my desk. When I asked about it, Daniel said he’d seen me throw away some old papers that morning.
“You seemed pretty out of it at breakfast, Dad. Maybe you don’t remember.”
Each incident alone could be explained away. Together, they formed a disturbing pattern.
That weekend, I pretended to go to my usual Saturday morning golf game. Instead, I drove to a coffee shop and called my attorney, Robert Mitchell. We’d been friends for 40 years.
“Bob, I need you to check something for me. Quietly.”
“What’s going on, Tom?”
“I need to know if anyone’s been making inquiries about my medical power of attorney or my trust fund.”
There was a long pause.
“Tom, are you okay?”
“Just humor me.”
