I Returned from My Mother’s Bedside and Found My Wife Locked in Our Basement – Our Daughter Had Locked Her In…

I pulled into my driveway after two weeks away, exhausted from the red-eye flight from Vancouver. My mother had suffered a stroke, and I’d been at her bedside through the worst of it.

She was stable now, thank God, but I was desperate to get home to Margaret, my wife. She has early onset Alzheimer’s, and two weeks apart felt like an eternity.

The house was dark. That struck me as odd.

It was only 8:00 in the evening, and Margaret usually kept the living room lights on. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and headed to the front door, fumbling for my keys.

That’s when I heard it. A faint thumping sound, rhythmic and desperate, coming from somewhere inside the house.

My heart stopped. I shoved the key in the lock and burst through the door.

The sound was clearer now. Someone was banging on something, and there was a muffled voice, hoarse and weak.

It was coming from below, from the basement. I dropped my suitcase and ran to the basement door.

It was locked from the outside, padlocked with a heavy-duty lock I’d never seen before. The thumping grew louder, more frantic.

“Margaret!” I shouted, my hands shaking as I searched for something to break the lock.

A cry came from the other side, weak and desperate. I ran to the garage, grabbed a crowbar, and pried that lock off in three violent yanks.

The door swung open, and the smell hit me first: urine, sweat, and something sour. I flicked on the light and nearly collapsed.

Margaret was at the bottom of the stairs, filthy and trembling, her nightgown stained and torn. Her face was gaunt, her lips cracked and bleeding.

She looked up at me with eyes that didn’t quite recognize me at first, confusion and terror mixing in her expression.

“thomas,” her voice cracked. “is that Is that really you?”

I was down those stairs in seconds, scooping her into my arms. She weighed almost nothing.

How long had she been down here without food, without water?

“i’m here sweetheart i’m here i’ve got you.” I carried her upstairs, my mind racing.

Who did this? How did this happen?

I laid her on the couch and grabbed my phone, dialing 911 with trembling fingers. As I gave our address to the dispatcher, I looked around the house.

Everything seemed different. Furniture had been moved, and there were boxes stacked in the corner I’d never seen before.

Margaret’s pill organizer was gone from the kitchen counter. The paramedics arrived within minutes as they checked Margaret’s vitals.

She was severely dehydrated, malnourished, with early signs of hypothermia despite it being September. I stood there in shock, trying to piece together what had happened.

“sir when did you last see your wife?” one of the paramedics asked.

“two weeks ago i left her with our daughter jennifer was supposed to stay with her while I was in Vancouver my mother had a stroke and I” my voice broke.

Jennifer did this. The paramedic exchanged a glance with her partner but said nothing.

They loaded Margaret onto a stretcher. I rode with her in the ambulance, holding her hand, whispering that she was safe now, that I was sorry, so sorry I’d left her.

At St. Michael’s Hospital, they admitted her immediately. A nurse pulled me aside while the doctors worked.

“mr holloway I need to ask has your wife been locked in that basement for the entire 2 weeks you were away?”

The question hit me like a freight train. Fourteen days.

My Margaret, trapped in that cold, dark basement for fourteen days.

“i don’t know,” I whispered. “i just found her like that.”

A police officer arrived an hour later. His name was Detective Morrison, Toronto Police Services, Elder Abuse Unit.

Yes, there’s actually a specialized unit for this. I sat in the hospital waiting room and told him everything.

I’m Thomas Holloway. I’m 65, retired from a career in civil engineering.

My wife, Margaret, is 63. She was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s two years ago.

It’s been progressing slowly, but she can still do most things with reminders and routine. She knows who I am, she knows our daughter; she just gets confused sometimes, forgets where she put things, loses track of time.

Our daughter, Jennifer, is 38. She’s a CPA at a mid-sized firm in downtown Toronto.

She married Kyle three years ago. Kyle calls himself a business consultant, but I’ve never been entirely clear on what he actually does.

He’s always talking about cryptocurrency, NFTs, passive income streams. I never liked him, if I’m being honest, but Jennifer seemed happy and that’s what mattered.

Two weeks ago, my mother in Vancouver had a stroke. My sister called me in a panic at 3:00 in the morning.

I booked the first flight out. Jennifer volunteered immediately to stay with Margaret while I was gone.

“dad don’t worry about a thing,” she’d said. “I’ll take care of mom you just focus on grandma.”

I was grateful, relieved even. Jennifer knew her mother’s routines, knew where all the medications were, knew how to handle the confusion and the sundowning that came with the disease.

I called every day from Vancouver for the first week.

“Mom’s fine Dad we’re watching her favorite shows i’m making sure she eats don’t worry.” Jennifer answered.

But during the second week, the calls went to voicemail. She texted instead.

“Sorry busy with mom she’s good call you later.”