I Returned From My Mother’s Bedside And Found My Wife Locked In Our Basement; Our Daughter Had…

The tires crunched over the gravel of my driveway, the sound a welcome home after fourteen long days. A red-eye flight from Seattle had left me utterly drained. My mother’s stroke had pulled me away, and I’d spent every moment at the hospital watching the slow, uncertain rhythm of her recovery. She was stable now, thank the Lord, but all I wanted was to be back with my wife, Eleanor.

Eleanor has early-onset Alzheimer’s, and being apart from her for two weeks felt like a lifetime. The house was completely dark, which was strange. It was only eight o’clock in the evening, and she always kept the lamps in the living room glowing.

I hauled my suitcase from the trunk and walked toward the front door, my fingers searching my pockets for the keys. That’s when I heard it—a faint, rhythmic thumping noise, a desperate sound coming from inside the house. My heart dropped into my stomach.

I jammed the key into the lock and threw the door open. The noise was clearer now, someone pounding on something, and a weak, muffled voice, hoarse from strain. It was coming from downstairs, from the basement.

I let my bag fall to the floor and rushed to the basement door. It was locked from the outside, secured with a heavy-duty padlock I’d never seen before. The thumping grew louder, more frantic.

—Eleanor! I shouted, my hands trembling as I looked around for anything I could use. A faint cry came from the other side, a weak, desperate sound. It was my wife.

I sprinted to the garage, my heart hammering against my ribs, and snatched a crowbar from the workbench. I wedged it into the lock and pried with all my strength, the metal screaming as it gave way after three violent yanks. The door swung inward, and the smell hit me first—a foul mix of urine, sweat, and something sour and stale.

I fumbled for the light switch, and when the single bulb flickered on, my legs almost gave out. Eleanor was huddled at the bottom of the stairs, trembling, her clothes filthy and torn. Her face was thin and drawn, her lips cracked and bleeding. She looked up at me, and for a terrifying second, there was no recognition in her eyes, just a swirling mess of confusion and raw fear.

—Robert?

Her voice was a dry crackle.
—Is that… is it really you?

I was down those steps in a flash, gathering her into my arms. She felt as light as a feather.

How long had she been trapped down here with no food or water?
—I’m here, my love. I’m here now. I’ve got you.

I carried her up to the living room, my mind reeling. Who could have done this? How did this happen? I laid her gently on the sofa and grabbed my phone, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely press the numbers 9-1-1. As I recited our address in Chicago to the dispatcher, my eyes scanned the room. Things were out of place. Furniture had been shifted. There were cardboard boxes stacked in a corner I’d never seen before. Eleanor’s weekly pill organizer was missing from the kitchen counter.

The paramedics arrived in minutes. As they checked her over—severely dehydrated, malnourished, showing early signs of hypothermia even though it was only September—I stood there in a daze, trying to make sense of it all.

—Sir, when was the last time you saw your wife? one of the paramedics asked.

—Two weeks ago. I left her with our daughter. Chloe was supposed to stay with her while I was in Seattle. My mother had a stroke, and I… —My voice broke. —Chloe did this?

The paramedic exchanged a quick, silent look with her partner but didn’t say a word. They loaded Eleanor onto a stretcher. I rode in the back of the ambulance, holding her hand, whispering over and over that she was safe now, that I was so, so sorry I’d ever left her. They admitted her right away at St. Clare’s Hospital.

A nurse pulled me aside while the doctors worked.
—Mr. Evans, I need to ask. Has your wife been locked in that basement for the entire two weeks you were gone?

The question hit me with the force of a physical blow. Fourteen days. My Eleanor, trapped in that dark, cold hole for fourteen days.
—I don’t know, —I whispered. —I just found her.

A police officer showed up an hour later. He introduced himself as Detective Miller from the Chicago Police Department’s Elder Abuse Unit. I didn’t even know such a unit existed. I sat in the stark hospital waiting room and told him everything.
—My name is Robert Evans. I’m 65, retired from a career in structural engineering. My wife, Eleanor, is 63. She was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s two years ago. It’s been a slow progression, but she manages well with reminders and a solid routine. She still knows me. She knows our daughter. She just gets confused sometimes, forgets where she put things, loses track of the day.

Our daughter, Chloe, is 38. She’s a CPA at a firm in the Loop. She’s been married to Mark for three years. Mark calls himself a financial strategist, but I’ve never been completely sure what that means. He’s always going on about cryptocurrency, decentralized finance, and building passive income. I never really took to him, to be honest. But Chloe seemed happy, and that was what mattered.

Two weeks ago, my mother in Seattle had a stroke. My sister called me, frantic, at three in the morning. I booked the first flight I could get. Chloe volunteered right away to stay with Eleanor.
—Dad, don’t you worry about a thing, —she’d said. —I’ll take good care of Mom. You just focus on Grandma.

I was so grateful. So relieved. Chloe knew all her mother’s routines, where all the medications were, how to handle the confusion and the sundowning that sometimes happened. I called every single day from Seattle. For the first week, Chloe answered.
—Mom’s doing fine, Dad. We’re watching her shows. I’m making sure she eats. Don’t worry.

But during the second week, the calls started going straight to voicemail. She’d text back instead.
—Sorry, busy with Mom. She’s good. I’ll call you later.

She never did. I tried calling Eleanor’s phone directly, but it was always off, going straight to voicemail, too. I told myself it was okay. Chloe had everything under control. My mother needed me. So I stayed.

Detective Miller listened to all of this, jotting notes in a small pad. Then he asked a question that made my blood turn to ice.
—Mr. Evans, during those two weeks, did you grant your daughter power of attorney over your wife’s affairs?

—No. Absolutely not.

—Did your wife sign any documents that you know of?

—Not that I’m aware of. Why?

He closed his notebook.
—We’ll need to look into this further. But Mr. Evans, this looks like it goes a lot deeper than simple neglect. We’ll be in touch.

Eleanor was in the hospital for three days. They got her rehydrated, treated her for malnutrition and exposure, and ran a whole series of tests. She kept asking where Chloe was.
—Where’s Chloe? She was just here. She was making me lunch.

—No, sweetheart, she wasn’t.