My daughter-in-law Chloe handed me a glass of water and told my son I was losing my mind.
I walked back to my workshop on Elm Street, the receipt for Martha still a phantom weight in my pocket. My mind felt like a jammed clock, gears grinding against each other with too many questions. Why had Chloe been paying Martha? Why the secrecy?
Before I could even unlock the main door, my son Ethan’s car pulled up. He got out, his face etched with a worry I rarely saw, and held open the back door for a woman I didn’t recognize.
She was tall, with kind eyes, but her presence immediately sent a shiver down my spine. This was the ‘caregiver’ I had read about in some of Chloe’s emails, casually dismissed as a future possibility.
“Dad,” Ethan began, his voice soft, almost apologetic. He walked up and placed a hand gently on my shoulder. “Chloe told me about what happened at the party.”
My jaw tightened. “What did Chloe tell you, Ethan?”
He sighed, avoiding my gaze, and glanced at the woman who was now standing a polite distance away. “She’s concerned, Dad. Really concerned. She said you had a bit of a… moment.”
“A moment?” I repeated, my voice rising. “I saw my mother, Ethan. My real mother, the one I thought died saving me from the fire.”
Ethan shook his head slowly, a deep sadness settling over his features. “She said you were calling a catering cleaner by a wrong name. That you seemed disoriented. Confused.”
“She’s lying!” I insisted. I reached into my pocket, my fingers fumbling for the receipt. “I have proof. Chloe’s been paying her. It’s all here.”
My hand closed around empty fabric. The receipt wasn’t there. I must have dropped it, or perhaps Chloe had already found it.
Ethan’s shoulders slumped. He looked at me with a pained expression, then back at the caregiver. “Dad, this is Mrs. Jenkins. She’s going to be helping out around the workshop, just for a bit. Chloe and I think it’s for the best, while you… get some rest.”
Mrs. Jenkins offered a small, professional smile. Her eyes, however, held a watchful, assessing quality.
I stared at Ethan, feeling a chilling wave wash over me. Chloe hadn’t just removed the evidence; she’d twisted the narrative so completely that even my own son now believed I was losing my mind.
Ethan hugged me quickly, a fleeting gesture, before getting back into his car. “I’ll call you later, Dad,” he said, his voice thick with what I now recognized as genuine concern mixed with utter conviction.
As his car pulled away, Mrs. Jenkins stepped forward. She gestured towards the workshop door. “Shall we go inside, Mr. Pendelton? I can help you organize your tools.”
I looked at the closed door, then at the friendly, watchful woman. I was under surveillance, locked in my own world, with no one to believe me.
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