He calls her his “pen pal,” but I’ve seen the wire transfers—$300 here, $500 there. Always late at night, always after he’s been scrolling his phone with that little secret smile.

I moved him in six months ago, after his stroke took out most of his left side. I bathe him. Feed him. Help him to the toilet. It’s not easy, especially with two kids and a job that doesn’t pay me enough to breathe. But he’s my dad. He used to carry me through snowstorms to get to school. I owe him.

So when the first transfer popped up in his email—he forgot to sign out—I didn’t say anything. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he thought he was helping someone. But then another came. Then three more. Same name. Same story: “Just a friend.”

I finally confronted him last night. He said she “makes him feel like a man again.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He can’t walk, can’t even hold a pen. But some woman—probably half his age—texts him sweet nothings and suddenly he’s Don Juan?

I checked the messages while he napped. There were hundreds. All oddly vague. Never video chats. Never phone calls. And then I saw one that made my stomach drop:

“She doesn’t need to know. Just send it like before, baby.”

I turned to wake him up, demand the truth—

—but his phone buzzed again with a new message from her, and this time it said—

“Only $900 more, and I can finally leave him.”

Leave who?

I sat down on the edge of the bed, phone still in hand, heart thudding like I was the one with a cardiac condition. The kids were asleep. The house was quiet. Except for that message burning a hole in my brain.

My dad stirred, groggy. “What’s going on?”

I didn’t answer. I just showed him the screen.

He looked at it, blinked a few times, and said, “She’s leaving her husband. For me.”

I swear my mouth fell open. “Dad, come on. You’ve never even met this woman.”

“She sent pictures. She’s real.”

“She also sent wiring instructions to a fake-name Western Union account in Indonesia, Dad. This is a scam.”

His face darkened. Not angry—ashamed. “No. She loves me.”

I stood up too fast and had to steady myself. “She loves your pension. She loves your disability checks. She’s bleeding you dry.”

And then he said something I didn’t expect. “So what if she is?”

I froze.

“I’m old. I had a stroke. I need help getting my pants up. And yeah, maybe she’s not real, but for a few minutes a day, I don’t feel like a burden.”

That crushed me more than anything.

I sat back down beside him. “But you are not a burden.”

He looked away. “You’re exhausted. I hear you crying in the bathroom. I see your son rolling his eyes when I ask for the remote. I know what I am now.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t wrong. It had been hard on all of us. He came with a wheelchair, a collection of pills, and a full-time care schedule that didn’t mesh well with my minimum wage retail job or my daughter’s chronic asthma.

But still.

“You deserve real love, Dad. Not… this.”

He didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes and rolled away from me.

The next morning, I found him in the kitchen trying to butter toast one-handed. Crumbs everywhere, butter on the handle of the fridge, coffee dripping from the side of the mug.

It would’ve been easier to clean it up myself, but I didn’t. I helped him steady the knife, kept my voice gentle.

“Maybe,” I said, “we can find you a hobby.”

He raised a brow. “You mean something that doesn’t involve wiring cash to scammers?”

“Something that gets you out of your own head. Even if it’s just talking to people who are actually real.”

That night, I made a call to the senior center two neighborhoods over. They had a virtual writing group for stroke survivors, twice a week. I printed out the flyer, taped it to his mirror.

“Think about it,” I said. “You like writing. You used to tell those long stories about the Navy…”

He didn’t say anything then. But the next week, I caught him on Zoom, grinning. It wasn’t Blossom. It was an 81-year-old woman named Luz from San Antonio talking about her poetry about retirement homes and bad cafeteria food.

I said nothing. Just left him to it.

But I wasn’t done with Blossom.

I still had her messages. And the bank transfers. And the screenshots of her telling him she’d be “visiting soon”—after “just one more” deposit.

I reported the account. It was taken down within 24 hours. But a week later, a new one popped up, same face, different name: “Misty.”

I knew then she (or they, more likely) were pros. I also knew my dad wasn’t her only victim.

So I did something petty, I’ll admit.

I made a fake account. Posed as “Walt,” 72, widowed, with a fat pension and a love for classic cars. I uploaded an AI-filtered photo of an older man I generated with some tool I found online. Used safe mode, nothing shady. Just enough to pass.

Within two days, Blossom-slash-Misty messaged me.

And just like that, I had her.

I didn’t catfish her long—maybe four days. Just enough to get her talking about the same money sob story. Then I sprung the trap.

“I know who you are,” I typed. “You’ve been targeting my father.”

She blocked me in under three seconds.

But that didn’t matter. I had enough screenshots, timestamps, and a small army of Reddit strangers helping me trace the burner numbers and cash pickup points.

One guy even messaged me, said his grandma had been messaging the same woman. She’d sent over two grand. He thanked me. Said my posts might’ve saved her from losing her whole rent check.

We started a thread. It got shared. Then picked up by a local digital news blog. Within two weeks, Blossom disappeared again—but this time, it seemed permanent.

Meanwhile, my dad was… better.

He started joining the writing group twice a week. He even submitted a short story to the center’s newsletter. It was called “The Woman Who Wasn’t There.” I read it. It was basically his version of what happened, but with a sci-fi twist that involved a robot girlfriend and a pension he hid in the freezer.

It was good. Like, really good.

I shared it on Facebook. It got passed around, and suddenly someone from a veterans’ support group asked if he wanted to speak at their next meeting—via Zoom, of course.

He said no at first. But then he changed his mind.

“They might as well hear it from someone who got played,” he said. “If it keeps one guy from giving away his grocery money, it’s worth the humiliation.”

It wasn’t humiliation. It was honesty. And people responded to that.

After the talk, an older woman named Hester sent him a message. No money requests. No vague promises. Just, “Thank you. You made me feel less dumb for what I fell for too.”

They started talking.

This time, I checked the messages (with his permission). She was real. Divorced. Lived in Delaware. Had a cat named Prince and a hobby painting old vinyl records. She had grandkids. And arthritis. And a weird, funny way of describing things like, “My knees feel like microwave popcorn today.”

They didn’t flirt. They talked. About books. About how hard it was to ask for help. About what it meant to feel invisible in a world that moves too fast.

He smiled differently with her. Not that dopey “I’m being fed sweet lies” smile. More like… peace.

The best part?

He stopped feeling like a burden.

I did, too.

I took a new job—slightly better hours, slightly better pay. The kids adjusted. My son started helping with Grandpa’s meds without being asked. My daughter learned how to fold towels “just the way Grandpa likes.”

It wasn’t perfect. It was still hard. But it was ours again.

And then one afternoon, after another Zoom call with Hester, my dad wheeled over to me, serious.

“I want to send her something.”

I blinked. “Money?”

He chuckled. “No. My story. The one I read to the vet group. She said it made her cry. I want to print it and send her a real copy. Not an email. I want her to hold it.”

So we did. Printed it at Staples. Found some nice cardstock. He dictated a handwritten note, and I copied it exactly. We mailed it off together.

Two weeks later, she sent a photo of herself holding the printout, smiling in her kitchen with Prince on her lap.

My dad teared up.

“She’s not Blossom,” he said. “But she’s real. And that’s better.”

If you’ve got someone older in your life—someone who seems “fine” or “keeps to themselves”—check in. Ask questions. Not in a nosy way, but with love.

Because loneliness makes people do strange things. Believe strange people. Fall for dangerous lies wrapped in fake affection.

But real connection? That still matters. Even if it starts with something as small as a cat named Prince and a story about a robot girlfriend in a freezer.