The blue ones in her nightstand were her prescription. A heavy sedative. The kind that fogs you up, drops you out, makes an old man look like he’s slipping away. Crushed into a mug of chamomile every night, on top of the Ativan she was double-dosing him with from the early refills. Of course he forgot the keys. Of course he didn’t know the year. He was being poured full of it nightly by the one person everyone trusted to take care of him.

And the accounts she said she’d manage. By the time the police got into it, she’d moved almost forty thousand dollars. The nursing home wasn’t for his sake. It was for hers. Get him locked away, declared unfit, and sign for everything herself while everyone said what a saint she was for handling it all.

She’s facing charges now. I don’t go to the hearings. I can’t sit in a room with her.

Here’s the thing nobody tells you. My dad got his mind back, mostly. He does the crossword again. In pen. But he flinches now when somebody hands him a drink, even me, even water. He looks at the cup first. Just for a second. Then he drinks it.

And every time I see him do that, I think about Thanksgiving. About his hand on my wrist and his mouth moving and me looking away because I was embarrassed.

He forgave me weeks ago. Told me to let it go. I haven’t been able to. I keep thinking about how close I came to signing those papers. How relieved I was when she said don’t worry about the money side.

The other night he caught me staring at him while he ate.

“Quit watching me like I’m gonna break,” he said.

I told him I wasn’t.

He went back to his crossword. Then, without looking up, he said, “You came over and counted the pills. That’s the part that matters.”

Maybe. I still poured out the rest of that chamomile myself, the whole box, into the trash. I don’t know why. He doesn’t drink it anymore anyway.

I just couldn’t have it in the house.