I figured hiring a caretaker for my father, Frank, would make things easier.
It was supposed to provide peace of mind, not paranoia. But that’s exactly what happened when our personal belongings started missing.

After a minor fall left my father injured and unable to care for himself, he had no option.

His doctor believed he needed help, and for once, I refused.

I told him. “You need someone.”

That’s when Tessa came into our life.

In her late 30th, she exuded a friendly demeanor that made others feel at ease. She was patient, sweet, caring, sensitive, and professional!

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Dad warmed up to her more quickly than I imagined!

She had him giggling within days, which I hadn’t seen in months!

At first, I was relieved by the additional assistance. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel forced to pick between my profession and caring for him. Unfortunately, the relief was short-lived.

One evening, as I was clearing the dinner plates long after Tessa had gone home, Dad grasped my wrist with such urgency that I shivered!
He had a fearful expression on his face that I hadn’t seen since I was a child.

“Sweetheart, she’s not who she says she is,” he whispered, despite us being the only people in the house. “And she takes things.”

He openly hesitated before he spoke. “Small stuff. My old flannel shirt. A book I’ve had since college. That pocket watch your mother gave me before she passed.”

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“Dad, maybe you misplaced them. You know how forgetful you’ve been lately.”

That night, however, something bothered me. Dad has never ac:cus:ed somebody lightly. And why was he afraid?

I arrived home late from work, weary, and slipped in through the back door to avoid waking him.

But as I entered the hallway, I heard Tessa’s voice, low and desperate.

“No, it’s not the time yet,” she murmured. “He’s weak. I think I need a week or two.”

I snuck away before she noticed me and shut myself in my room, my heart racing.

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The next morning, I kept an eye on her.
I made up my mind right there: I will fire her that evening. There is no discussion. But I never had the opportunity—because fate had other intentions.

Then I heard it: crying.

Not just any sobbing; his crying!

Panicked, I hurried toward the sound, my heart pounding against my ribs!

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Tessa, across from him, was on her knees, holding a stack of papers and shivering with tears.

I was about to shout or phone the cops when my sight shifted to the coffee table…

There lay Dad’s old flannel shirt. My blouse is missing. And, in Tessa’s hands—my heart nearly stopped—a DNA test!

“I only took the shirt and your blouse because I needed hair samples for the DNA test.”
He looked at me, then back at her. He swallowed hard. “She’s my daughter. Your older sister, Monica.”

“But the strange phone call you made yesterday—I heard you. Who were you talking to about waiting for the test results?” I asked.

“I was talking to a private investigator (PI) I hired recently after saving up enough to afford him after all these years. His job was to track down my biological father,” Tessa explained.

And, for the first time, I was not terrified of Tessa. I was awed by her.

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And just like that, everything changed.

We weren’t strangers anymore. We were family.