I tucked the documents the attorney had given me into a folder. Documents that meant Dad was officially unable to make his own health and financial decisions—grateful he’d signed them before it was too late.

“Dad, it’s time to go,” I shouted into my former guest room.

My father sat in the worn recliner he insisted we bring from his former Sun City independent living facility.

Conspiracy theorists shouted book-banning rhetoric from the television. “I knew it,” he barked. “It’s been books all along.”

“Dad, books aren’t taking over the government. Here let me help you get your shoes on.”

“I can do it myself.” He bent over and almost pummeled to the ground.

I grabbed one of his loafers. “Just slip your foot in. I got you.”

He mumbled some swear words followed by, “Your old man can put his shoes on.”

“I know you can. Just trying to help.” With his last loafer in place, I pushed his wheeled walker in front of him. “Alrighty let’s go. Attorney Foster can’t wait to see you.”

“I don’t need that thing. I can walk without it.” Dad pushed the walker out of the way.

“Remember what Dr. Harvey said. One fall and…”

“Fine, give me the damn thing.” Dad took the walker and pushed himself toward the door.

I grabbed the folder, my purse, and keys. This would be the last visit there with Dad. The next time I’d see Attorney Foster, I’d be alone—and it broke my heart.

On the drive, Dad complained about the Brandon traffic, which he wasn’t wrong. Then he complained about the Florida heat, which I loved. Growing up in the Sunshine State surrounded by patches of plump strawberries, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

“We’re here.” I pulled into Foster Elder Law Firm. The residential brick building turned commercial always reminded me of our old home back in downtown Plant City. I shook the memory away, got Dad’s walker out of the trunk, and opened the passenger door.

Dad didn’t want my help any more than I wished he didn’t need it—but I offered my hand. He took it and up righted himself on the walker.

“Take me to Foster the Great,” he said.

I rang the bell on the firm’s front door.

A tall dark blonde let us in. “Hello. Rachelle is waiting for you both in the conference room. Follow me.”

Dad struggled to push the walker over the worn Persian rugs in the lobby.

Dark blonde offered to help. “Sir, let me move these out of the way.”

“Hon, back in the day I played college football at Florida State. Star running back. These rugs got nothing on me.” He attempted to lift the walker over a rug seam and tumbled.

Dark blonde and I both grabbed him. “Dad, you’re a few years out from star running back.”

He shot me a glare but accepted my help.

The law clerk moved the rugs. Then she put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good daughter.”

Tears welled behind my eyes, the same bright blue as my father’s. “Thank you.”

The clerk helped my father into a chair at a conference table. I sat next to him and patted his weathered hand. Years as a strawberry farmer had been lucrative, but tough on his body.

Attorney Foster sat amongst piles of folders and fancy pens. She stood and offered a handshake across the table. First to Dad. “Good to see you Mr. Parke.” Then to me. “Ms. Parke.”

Dad pointed to her wedding ring. “I thought you were waiting for me.”

She chuckled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but my husband might be upset if I told him I was leaving him for a client. Not to mention it’s highly unethical.”

“Dad. Stop.” It wasn’t the worst thing he’d said lately. But he’d never said anything like this in front of his lawyer. The disease was really progressing.

The young attorney smiled. “Totally okay. My job is to make you both comfortable. Including your charming father.”

The last thing I felt was comfort. Taking my demented father’s rights away—from the man who’d help guide me through every major decision of my own life. It didn’t seem right, but necessary.

Attorney Foster explained what we were signing and why. With each signature, Dad’s shoulders slouched more. At one point I grabbed a tissue to blot a bit of wet mascara before it slid down my cheek.

“Well, that’s all the medical documents. The last thing is asset disclosures. Before we sign these, Mr. Parke, do you have any other assets not reported?” She shuffled through the documents. “I have your banking and savings, and your financial planner sent over everything from his end. Anything like Savings Bonds or cash or anything else that is not in a financial institution.”

After she asked the question, Dad’s eyes focused on the wall behind her. Six framed book covers filled the space between overfilled bookcases—Pride and Prejudice, Anne of Green Gables, Huckleberry Finn, Little Women, The Hobbit, and To Kill a Mockingbird.

Dad pointed to the artwork. “I’m not telling you anything more until you turn those books off.”

Mrs. Foster’s eyebrows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

I glanced at the covers. “Dad, what’re you talking about?” Many of those books he and I had read together when I was a child.

“Those books. I’ve heard it on the news. Sharing all our secrets with the government. I’m not falling for it.”

“Mr. Parke, I can show you this artwork isn’t electric or connected to WIFI or anything. Just book covers I framed of my favorite classics.” The attorney lifted a frame from the wall to show my dad there were no hidden wires or infrared discs.

The irony that Dad wasn’t the least bit concerned about her open laptop, cellphone, or smartwatch, all devices allegedly known for sneaky marketing—framed book covers were his concern.

“That’s what you say, but you don’t know. If you won’t take them out, I’ll only write it down.”

Dad scribbled some numbers and notes on a piece of paper and slid it over to the lawyer.

She picked it up. “Mr. Parke, we’ll make sure your assets are properly protected.”

Then to me, “Ms. Parke, I’ll update your father’s documents and since he’s listed you as Guardian Ad-Litem, I’ll have you come in next week to finalize.” She held out a hand I shook it. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

The law clerk helped up Dad and the attorney pulled me aside. “Ms. Parke. I’m sorry to tell you this. But what you’ve done today, it’s in the best interest of your father. We don’t want to get to the point where we must get physicians involved. It gets very complicated.”

“I know. The book thing. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Your father’s one of my favorite clients. Always has been. But with the growing culture war on literature, I’d steer him clear of less news and more Price is Right. Keep him in a good mindset.”

“Got it.”

Then she jutted in front of me. “Mr. Parke, it was an absolute pleasure seeing you again. You take care.”

The law clerk secured Dad in his front passenger seat and waved goodbye.

“Good visit,” Dad said.

“Yes, it was, Dad. Yes it was.” As I pulled out of Foster Law, I decided I’d make a phone call to cut the cord when I got back home.

Despite the protests I’d expect from him, my father wouldn’t spend his last days watching conspiracy theorists on cable news.

He’d spend his last days reading with his daughter.

*Author’s Note: Sometimes the truth is more unbelievable than fiction. Such is the case with this inspired-by real-life very recent story. Book-banning and anti-literature rhetoric push false narratives into vulnerable minds. Then they marinate, multiply, and morph into a much worse, more dangerous version. As citizens of intellectual freedom, it is our duty to prevent these false narratives from penetrating the minds of those we love.