I'm almost certain my father's best friend killed my father.

My father was dying from the time I was born. A massive heart attack which brought congestive heart failure to the doctor's attention. I was well prepared, my parents, despite being divorced, working very well together to learn about m father's imminent mortality while accepting it every step of the way. By the time he was put on hospice care when I was 15, I was more or less prepared. I ended up being his co-caretaker with his friend. We'll call her Christine.

Going into all of this, I wanted to care for him on my own, though I understand the legal issues with that. Christine was helpful by bringing food and the like, but she as cold and packed any understanding, doing things like me to dress for company as I was giving my father his medications via IV. When, for outlying an frankly irrelevant reasons, it became apparent that I would not be able to live with my mother after he died, it was arranged that I live with Christine and her husband. This became a terrifying and looming future as this lack of understanding continued.

All of this could have been simply just her handling poorly, I suppose. Then, things took a turn. I saw Christine kissing her exboyfriend, a friend of my father who as over to help out. Christine noticed that I saw, and came to my room to implore me to keep quiet about it, offering stress as an excuse. The next morning I noticed some of my father's pain killer was unaccounted for. I made a mental note of it and moved on.

As the week continued I more painkiller went missing, and my father's symptoms changed. It almost seemed like he wasnt even dying heart failure anymore; his worst symptoms being those occurring with the drugs rather then the expected progression of his disease. I began to expect she had something to do with it. She owned an animal shelter and passionately advocated euthanizing terminal dogs. Not to mention her increasingly cruel and erratic behavior.

I told a few people of course. I was quickly moved in with her after his death, and she was chiding me for "moping" just days later. This seemed unreasonably callous. On it's own I wouldn't have thought more of it than just that, but combined with the facts it was disturbing. I felt so often in that time, like I was living in a late night crime documentary. But everytime I told anyone, they shrugged me off. On two particularly confusing occasions, someone agreed with me, but seemed disaffected by the knowledge.

She still lives in my hometown, though I've moved away. I only lived with her for a year due to the abuse she inflicted. And I still believe to his day she was overdosing my dad.