Back home, the folder sat on my kitchen table, a silent reminder of the questions left unanswered. I poured over the statements again, my pen tracing over numbers and dates. The May 15th withdrawal wasn’t the only anomaly. There were smaller amounts, scattered like breadcrumbs, leading me further down the path of doubt.

I picked up my phone and dialed my father’s caregiver. The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered. “Hello, this is Mary.” I explained my concerns, keeping my tone light. “I noticed some unusual transactions in Dad’s account and wanted to make sure everything was accounted for.”

“Of course,” Mary replied, her voice smooth and reassuring. “I’ll pull together what I can from our records and get back to you.” I thanked her, but as I hung up, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being carefully managed, kept just out of sight.

The next few days were a blur of calls and emails, each one peeling back another layer of the mystery. I reached out to his insurance company, confirming coverage and payouts that didn’t match the charges on the statements. Each interaction felt like a piece of a puzzle clicking into place, yet the picture remained incomplete.

One evening, as I sat at the table, my father shuffled into the room. “What’s all this?” he asked, gesturing towards the papers. I hesitated, unsure how much to share. “Just reviewing some of your accounts, making sure everything’s in order,” I said with a smile. He nodded, seeming satisfied, but I noticed the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

As he left the room, I returned to my work, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on my shoulders. I knew I needed to get to the bottom of this, for both our sakes.

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