Chapter 4 - My Father's Medication
I drove straight to the hospital.
My father was there for rehabilitation.
I requested his medication records.
The nurse looked confused.
“Why?”
“I'm his daughter.”
She hesitated.
“I'll need authorization.”
I called David.
Within twenty minutes, we had the records.
I studied them.
There were inconsistencies.
Two medications had been changed without documentation.
One dosage had been doubled.
The dates matched the week before my father's stroke.
My hands went cold.
I called a neurologist.
He reviewed the records.
“This is concerning.”
“Could this have caused his stroke?”
“It could have contributed.”
“Accidentally?”
He looked at me.
“Possibly.”
I knew what that meant.
We needed proof.
I contacted the hospital's pharmacy.
The original prescription had been for one medication.
My mother's handwritten note instructed a different dosage.
I recognized the handwriting.
It was hers.
I took everything to the police.
The investigation began quietly.
My mother knew nothing.
Or so I thought.
That evening, she called.
“You need to come here.”
“Why?”
“Your father needs you.”
“I know.”
“You've been acting strangely.”
“No.”
She paused.
“Did you talk to Chelsea?”
My heart stopped.
“No.”
“You're lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
She hung up.
I stared at the phone.
Then I received another message from Chelsea.
She knows.
I called her.
“She found out?”
“Yes.”
“What do we do?”
“Protect Dad.”
“I am.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“You need to protect yourself too.”
The next morning, police searched my parents' home.
They found prescription records.
A notebook.
And several messages between my mother and someone whose name wasn't saved.
The number belonged to a private caregiver.
A caregiver who had worked for my father for only two months.
She confessed.
Helen had paid her to alter medication records.
The goal?
To make my father appear incompetent.
Why?
Because Helen wanted legal authority over his finances.
But why?
Because she had been withdrawing money.
Thousands.
Then tens of thousands.
The withdrawals were connected to Chelsea's husband's business.
My sister had known.
She had been trying to stop it.
My mother threatened her.
Everything became clear.
My mother wasn't simply cruel.
She was desperate.
She had spent years controlling everyone around her.
And now her lies were collapsing.
My father was finally able to speak more clearly.
I visited him.
He looked at me.
“Lucy.”
I took his hand.
“Dad.”
He squeezed my fingers.
“I knew.”
I froze.
“You knew?”
He nodded slowly.
“Your mother.”
I started crying.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I tried.”
He pointed toward the box.
“Colleen.”
“You knew she had it?”
He nodded.
Then whispered:
“Protect yourself.”
I hugged him.
For the first time in years, I felt like a daughter.
Not a caretaker.
Not a financial resource.
A daughter.
My father looked toward the door.
“Chelsea?”
“She knows.”
He closed his eyes.
“Good.”
Then he whispered something that terrified me.
“Don't trust your mother.”
I nodded.
“I won't.”
That night, my mother was arrested.
The charges included financial exploitation, falsification of medical records, and attempted fraud.
But one question remained.
Why had she always hated me?
The answer came from a document found in her desk.
It was a letter written thirty-six years earlier.
Before I was born.
May you like
And the name on it wasn't mine.
It was another woman's.
