When Rachel arrives at her mother’s nursing home, she’s told something unthinkable — her mom was discharged a week ago. But Rachel never signed her out. Someone else did. And the name they give her? A ghost from the past who was never supposed to return.
“What do you mean my mom was discharged a week ago?” My voice rose to a panicked pitch as I leaned on the nursing home’s reception desk.
“That’s what it says on the system, Rachel,” Denise, the receptionist, replied. “Maybe it’s an error…”
Denise’s fingers flew across the keyboard. I stared at her face with my heart in my throat, waiting for her to smile and tell me it was all a big mistake.
Instead, she frowned.
“It’s not an error,” she said softly. “She was discharged last week. I wasn’t working that day, but according to our records, her daughter signed her out.” Denise looked up at me then. “I’ve only ever seen you coming to visit Joyce, but the woman who signed her out is called Lauren.”
“Lauren?” the name came out on a gasp. “That… that’s impossible!”
“She provided all the necessary documentation,” Denise continued. “Are you telling me this woman is a fraud?”
“I… no, probably not.” I glared down at the freshly baked banana bread and cozy cardigan I’d brought with me to give to Mom. “Thank you, Denise. I’ll take it from here. You can keep the banana bread.”
I took the cardigan and spun on my heel. Denise called after me, but I didn’t turn back. All I could think about was hunting Lauren down and finding Mom.
Out in the parking lot, I took a deep breath of fresh air and tried to gather my whirling thoughts.
Lauren, my sister, who I hadn’t seen or heard from in a decade, had taken Mom from her nursing home.
Lauren, who hadn’t even called on Mom’s 70th birthday, who’d never read the message I sent three years ago to let her know Mom was in the early stages of dementia, was now playing the caring daughter?
I shook my head and marched toward my car.
Nothing about this made sense. When Lauren left (following a fierce argument with Mom), she made it clear she wanted nothing more to do with us.
She disappeared overnight.
How did Lauren even know Mom was here?
And why would she take her, after all these years?
The most frightening question of all struck me as I unlocked my car: how on earth could Lauren take care of Mom?
I sank into the driver’s seat and clutched the cardigan against my chest. Putting Mom into a nursing home was the hardest decision I’d ever made, but I’d had no choice. After Mom fell and broke her hip, I’d realized I couldn’t possibly care for her by myself anymore.
I work full time and couldn’t leave Mom alone at home anymore. I couldn’t risk her having another accident and hurting herself.
Her worsening memory was also a concern, because what if she decided to cook something and forgot to turn the gas off? Or accidentally double-dosed on her medication?
Some things still stuck in Mom’s memory. She remembered me and could hold a mostly coherent conversation most of the time, but she needed constant supervision.
Without that level of care, Mom was in danger.
I needed to find Lauren and get Mom back, fast.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the last number I had for Lauren. A robotic voice informed me the number was no longer in service.
Of course, it wasn’t.
Facebook was my next attempt.
Her profile still existed, frozen in time with a profile picture from 2013. I sent a message, simple and direct:
“Where is Mom?”
I waited a few minutes, hoping for an answer, or confirmation that she’d read the message, but got nothing.
“Then we’ll do this the hard way,” I muttered as I started my car and headed home.
For two days, I called everyone I could think of: Mom’s old neighbors, cousins we barely spoke to, and even Lauren’s shady ex-husband. Nothing. It was like they’d evaporated.
I was on the verge of hiring a private investigator when I got a breakthrough.
I was ruthlessly scrolling through Instagram in search of Lauren when I came across a new account called “The Sunrise Caregiver.”
I clicked on it mostly to rule it out.
My coffee mug slipped from my fingers and shattered on the kitchen tile when I saw the first photo on the feed.
There, in a perfectly filtered photo, sat Lauren beside Mom.
Mom’s thin hand was clasped between Lauren’s manicured fingers.
Mom’s eyes looked vacant, confused. Her sweater was inside out. Behind them hung the robin calendar I’d bought for Mom’s room.
The caption underneath the photo made my blood boil:
“Caring for the woman who gave me life. Family over everything. #eldercare #daughterduty #familyfirst Click the link in my bio to help support Mom’s care journey.”
The bio link led me to a campaign on a crowdfunding platform.
The campaign was titled: Help support Mom’s care after I rescued her from neglect.
The image showed Mom staring into the camera, her gaze filled with fear and confusion. Below that was a paragraph of text that made me sick.
“As the estranged daughter who returned just in time, I’ve made peace with my absence. Mom needed rescuing from a neglectful situation. I wasn’t there before, but I am now. Sometimes second chances come when you least expect them, but need them most.”
Lauren already had almost $1000 in donations. Comments flooded the post:
“You’re such a hero!”
“She’s lucky to have you back in her life!”
“Angels walk among us!”
I zoomed in on the photo of Mom. The pale lavender polish I’d painted on her nails during my last visit was chipping. Her sweater was the one I’d brought her last month.
This wasn’t just theft. This was erasure. Lauren was erasing me from Mom’s story.
And she was making money doing it.
“How dare you!” I screeched into my empty kitchen. “Lauren, you little…”
I let out a stream of expletives and slammed my palm against the table. Lauren’s ten-year silence had been cold, but to use Mom like her cash cow? That was more than heartless; it was depraved.
And there was no way I would let her get away with it.
“This is not how our story ends,” I whispered as I exited the website.
After 30 minutes of scrolling, I found a lawyer. Ten minutes later, I had booked an emergency appointment to meet with him the next day.
I spent the rest of the evening taking screenshots of Lauren’s social media profiles and crowdfunding campaign and printing them out. I also emailed Denise at the nursing home with an urgent request.
“Rachel, honey, it’s Mom. Just wanted to say thank you for the magazines and for fixing my TV. And for the visit. Thank you for always coming, honey. You’re the only one who does. Love you.”
Javier, my lawyer, looked it all over and nodded.
“We’ll file for emergency guardianship,” he said.
The courtroom was colder than I expected. The judge reviewed our case files silently before looking up.
“Lauren, you’ve claimed your mother was in a neglectful situation. Can you elaborate?”
Lauren dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she’d been clutching since she walked in.
“Your Honor, I reconnected with my mother recently and found her in a terrible condition. Her nails were uncut, her hair unwashed.” Her voice cracked dramatically. “I couldn’t bear to see her like that, so I brought her home where I could give her proper care.”
Lauren put on an Oscar-worthy performance. She even cried. But I had something far more powerful than acting skills and crocodile tears.
When it was my turn, Javier presented all my printed evidence to the judge. I played Mom’s voicemail and presented statements from Mom’s caseworker at the home and her doctor.
Two hours later, the judge’s gavel came down with a decisive crack.
“Guardianship is granted to Rachel, effective immediately. Lauren will surrender Joyce to her care by the end of business today.”
That afternoon, I brought Mom back to her room at the nursing home. I hung the robin calendar back in its place and set out fresh lemon muffins.
Mom looked at me, her eyes cloudy but present. “You came,” she whispered.
I took her hand gently, careful of her paper-thin skin. “Always, Mom. Always.”
A week from now, she might not remember that Lauren had taken her, or that she’d been gone at all.
But I would.
And I would be there, with banana bread on Saturdays and manicures on Sundays, just like always.
Because that’s what love looks like. It’s showing up, and being there, supporting your loved ones again and again, even when no one is watching.
Here’s another story: I thought our marriage was built on trust — until I opened our emergency fund lockbox and found it empty. Jake confessed he gave everything to his sister for her wedding. But Lauren has a dark past… and this time, her lies might destroy more than just our savings.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
