“How much have you paid my daughter?”

Bobby shifted his weight.

“Clayton, I’ve paid exactly what we agreed. Twenty-six thousand last year. Same arrangement as the year before.”

“And the year before that?”

“About the same. Some years a little more, depending on the crop ground.”

Daddy nodded slowly.

“How many years?”

“Three since you went into the nursing home. But Sherry was handling the payments before that, too.”

Daddy’s fingers тιԍнтened around the armrest of his wheelchair.

“How much altogether?”

Bobby thought for a moment.

“Close to eighty thousand dollars since you went into care. Maybe a little more if you count the additional pasture payment.”

I felt my stomach turn.

Eighty thousand dollars.

Three years of my retirement money.

Three years of telling Doug we would have to postpone replacing the roof.

Three years of skipping vacations because Daddy needed another $2,100 every month.

And all that time, my sister had been collecting the rent from his land.

Daddy didn’t raise his voice.

He simply asked another question.

“Bobby, did Sherry ever tell you that money was supposed to go toward my nursing home?”

“Yes, sir. She said the facility wasn’t taking care of everything and that the rent would help cover your expenses.”

Daddy looked at me.

I nodded.

“She told me the same thing. Except she said there wasn’t any rent.”

Bobby’s face changed.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Daddy turned back toward him.

“Did she ever give you a receipt?”

“Every payment. I’ve got copies of the checks and bank transfers.”

“Good. Keep them.”

Then Daddy said something that made Bobby remove his cap again.

“From today forward, you don’t send another dollar to Sherry.”

Bobby nodded.

“Understood.”

Daddy looked across the fields.

“I’ve owned this ground for sixty-three years. I know what it’s worth. And I know what my daughters are worth.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“Apparently, I just forgot to ask the right questions.”

I reached for his hand.

He squeezed my fingers.

We sat there for another twenty minutes, watching the cattle move across the hillside.

On the drive back, Daddy barely spoke.

I thought he was angry.

But when we reached the nursing home, he surprised me.

“Call Sherry.”

“Daddy, maybe we should wait until tomorrow.”

“No. Call her now.”

I dialed.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“What do you need?”

Daddy leaned toward the phone.

“Sherry, I went to my farm today.”

Silence.

Then she laughed nervously.

“Why would you do that? You should have told me. That road isn’t safe for you.”

“I saw Bobby.”

Another silence.

“Well, good. He’s a nice man.”

“He told me about the rent.”

I watched my father’s face.

Sherry’s voice changed immediately.

“What rent?”

“The twenty-six thousand dollars he paid you last year.”

She didn’t answer.

Daddy continued.

“And the money from the two previous years.”

“Oh, Daddy. That’s complicated. You don’t understand how these things work anymore.”

His expression hardened.

“I understand perfectly well.”

“You’re getting confused. I handle your finances. That’s why you gave me power of attorney.”

“Did I give you permission to keep my rent?”

“I didn’t keep anything! I’ve been managing everything for you!”

“Then where is the money?”

Sherry exhaled sharply.

“Some of it went toward your expenses. Taxes, insurance, repairs, transportation. You have no idea how expensive it is to manage your property.”

I interrupted.

“Sherry, you’ve never shown us a single repair invoice.”

She snapped.

“I wasn’t talking to you!”

Daddy raised one hand.

“Don’t speak to your sister like that.”

For a moment, nobody said anything.

Then Daddy asked the question that changed everything.

“Sherry, why did you tell your sister I had no money?”

Her voice became defensive.

“Because you didn’t! Your care costs a fortune!”

“Then why has your sister been paying twenty-one hundred dollars every month?”

Silence.

I heard Sherry take a breath.

“She volunteered.”

Daddy closed his eyes.

“She volunteered because you told her I needed the money.”

“Well, somebody had to pay it!”

“Yes,” Daddy said quietly. “And apparently, somebody did.”

He ended the call.

For several seconds, he sat motionless.

Then he looked at me.

“How long have you been paying?”

“Three years, Daddy.”

“How much?”

I hesitated.

“Seventy-five thousand six hundred dollars.”

He stared at me.

I hadn’t intended to tell him the total.

His eyes filled with tears.

“Seventy-five thousand?”

I nodded.

He looked toward the window.

“Your mother would be ashamed of us.”

I squeezed his hand.

“Don’t say that.”

He shook his head.

“No, sweetheart. I’m ashamed of myself. I trusted the wrong person, and you paid the price.”

That evening, Daddy asked the nursing home administrator to arrange a meeting with his attorney.

Two days later, we sat around a conference table with Mr. Harris, an estate attorney who had handled Daddy’s property for more than thirty years.

Sherry arrived twenty minutes late.

She wore a navy-blue dress and carried a leather folder.

“What’s this meeting about?” she demanded.

Daddy sat at the head of the table.

His wheelchair was positioned beside the window.

“I want my financial records.”

Sherry rolled her eyes.

“Daddy, we’ve discussed this.”

“No. You’ve discussed it. I’ve listened.”

Mr. Harris opened a folder.

“We’ve reviewed the available bank statements and property records. There are several transactions that require explanation.”

Sherry’s expression changed.

“Such as?”

“Rent payments from Bobby Whitt totaling approximately $79,000 over three years.”

“Those funds were used for Daddy!”

“Then we need documentation.”

“I don’t have to explain every little purchase to you!”

Mr. Harris calmly placed another document on the table.

“Under the power of attorney, you have a fiduciary responsibility to act in your father’s interests and maintain appropriate records. We need a complete accounting.”

Sherry turned toward Daddy.

“You’re really doing this? After everything I’ve done for you?”

Daddy looked at her.

“Tell me what you’ve done with the money.”

She stood abruptly.

“I am not going to sit here and be accused of stealing from my own father!”

Daddy’s voice remained steady.

“Then show us where the money went.”

She grabbed her folder.

But before she could leave, Mr. Harris placed one final sheet in front of her.

It was a copy of a bank transfer.

$18,500.

Sent from the account receiving Daddy’s farm rent to a company owned by Sherry’s husband.

The description read:

DOWN PAYMENT — NEW TRUCK.

I looked at my sister.

She went completely still.

Daddy stared at the document for a long time.

Then he slowly lifted his eyes.

“Sherry, did you use my land money to buy your husband a truck?”

Her lips parted.

“That was a temporary arrangement.”

Daddy nodded.

“Then I have one more question.”

He reached into his jacket and removed a folded piece of paper.

It was an old handwritten note.

His handwriting.

“I wrote this when I first moved into the nursing home,” he explained.

He handed it to Mr. Harris.

The attorney read it aloud.

My daughter Sherry will help manage my affairs, but no money from my land is to be used for anyone’s personal benefit. All rent belongs to me and is to be used for my care and living expenses.

Daddy looked directly at Sherry.

“I gave you authority to help me. I didn’t give you ownership of my life.”

Sherry began crying.

“Daddy, I was going to pay it back.”

That was the first time she had admitted anything.

But Daddy wasn’t finished.

He turned toward Mr. Harris.

“I want a full accounting. I want the rent paid directly into an account only I control. And I want my power of attorney reviewed.”

Sherry’s face collapsed.

Then she whispered something none of us expected.

“Fine. But if you do that, I won’t be able to keep paying for the things I’ve been handling.”

Daddy frowned.

“What things?”

She looked down.

And suddenly, I realized there was another secret.

Because if Sherry had been using his rent money for herself, what exactly had she been paying for on his behalf?

Mr. Harris opened another folder.

He looked at Daddy, then at me.

“Clayton, there’s something else. Your property tax records show that the farm’s insurance and taxes have been paid regularly. But we found another account connected to your name that appears to have received deposits from the rent.”

Daddy leaned forward.

“What account?”

Mr. Harris hesitated.

“An investment account opened three years ago. The beneficiary information was changed last month.”

Daddy’s face went pale.

“Changed to whom?”

The attorney turned the document around.

Sherry’s name was printed beneath the beneficiary designation.

For the first time that afternoon, my sister had nothing to say.

Daddy looked at her for a long moment.

Then he spoke in a voice so quiet that everyone in the room leaned forward.

“Sherry, I want to know what else you’ve signed in my name.”

And that was when we discovered the farm wasn’t the only thing my sister had been trying to take.

TO BE CONTINUED — PART 3: THE DOCUMENT THAT COULD COST SHERRY EVERYTHING.