When the alarm clock rang at 3:00 a.m., the world outside my window was still steeped in thick darkness. I fumbled to turn it off, my fingertips brushing the cold metal, and a shiver ran through me. These seventy‑nine‑year‑old bones weren’t what they used to be.
Every time I got up, it felt like restarting a rusty machine, my joints groaning under the strain. I sat up slowly, reached for the cane by my bed, and made my way to the kitchen by the dim glow of the nightlight. Inside the refrigerator, a fresh chicken breast I’d been saving was sealed in a container.
It was an organic piece my old neighbor, Dr. Arthur, had brought me last week. He said it was free‑range, perfect for a nourishing broth.
Daniel had been working so much overtime lately. He needed something to keep his strength up. I muttered to myself as I carefully placed the chicken into the slow cooker, adding carrots, celery, and a few herbs.
Once the water boiled, I turned the heat down low, covered it, and let it simmer. The kitchen soon filled with the fragrant aroma of vegetables. I sat on a small stool, watching the bubbles rise through the glass lid, just like when I used to make soup for my son when he was young.
I remembered how frail and sickly Daniel was as a child. I’d often stay up all night tending to his fevers. After my husband passed, I raised our boy alone, working at the textile mill during the day and taking on sewing jobs at night.
During the hardest times, there were three straight months when I lived on nothing but peanut‑butter‑and‑jelly sandwiches. But I never let my son miss a single meal with meat. The broth in the pot slowly turned a rich amber color, and the sky outside shifted from black to gray.
I checked the wall clock. 4:50. It was time to go.
Daniel always woke up at six, and I had timed it perfectly so I could get there just as he was getting up, ready for his first warm bowl of soup. I carefully poured the chicken soup into a thermos and wrapped it in a thick wool scarf. The January wind cut like a knife.
Leaning on my cane, I shuffled step by step toward my son’s house. He and his wife lived in a new condo complex not far from my old place. What was normally a twenty‑minute walk now took me double the time.
The streets were nearly empty, save for a few sanitation workers sweeping the sidewalks. My fingers gripped the thermos tightly, terrified it would get cold. The arthritis in my left leg throbbed with pain, but I gritted my teeth and kept going.
The thought of my son’s face, warm and flushed after drinking the hot soup, made the pain seem insignificant. At 5:40, I finally stood before my son’s front door. The motion‑sensor light in the hallway flickered on, illuminating my face, red from the cold.
I took a deep breath, about to ring the doorbell, when I suddenly heard the sharp, mocking laughter of my daughter‑in‑law from inside. “Is your mother here with that soup again? Who would dare drink something from that old hag?
God knows what kind of filth she puts in it.”
My finger froze in midair, and my heart clenched. “Keep your voice down,” I heard my son, Daniel, say. There wasn’t a trace of anger in his voice—only a fawning, apologetic tone.
“She’s a little hard of hearing. She won’t hear you.”
“I don’t care. We have to throw it out this time.
The last batch gave me an upset stomach for two days. Do you think she does it on purpose? She just can’t stand to see us happy.”
“All right.
All right. We’ll toss it.”
Daniel’s words were like daggers in my heart. “Mom really is too much.
Coming over this early and waking us up. Tell her not to come anymore. Just looking at her is bad luck.
She’s almost eighty—who knows when she’ll just drop dead on our doorstep. How disgusting.”
“Mom, don’t come over anymore.”
My son’s words floated out light as air, yet they landed on my heart with the weight of a thousand pounds. I stood outside the door, my whole body trembling—not from the winter cold but from a chill that seeped from the very core of my being.
The thermos in my hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy. I slowly crouched down and placed it on the doormat in front of the door. As I turned to leave, the arthritis in my legs flared with sharper pain, but I didn’t dare linger, afraid they would open the door and see me.
During the few dozen seconds the elevator descended, I bit my lip so hard I thought it would bleed, fighting to keep the tears from falling. Stepping out of the building, the sky had begun to lighten. The streetlights in the complex were still on, casting hazy yellow halos in the morning mist.
I wandered aimlessly and, without realizing it, ended up in a small neighborhood park nearby. A thin layer of frost coated the benches, but I didn’t care about the cold. I collapsed onto one and finally let the tears I had held back for so long stream down my face.
“Helen.”
A familiar voice made me hastily wipe my eyes. I looked up to see my old neighbor, Dr. Arthur, standing before me in his jogging suit, his expression full of concern.
“What are you doing out here so early?” he asked, sitting down beside me. His gaze fell on my swollen eyes. “Did something happen?”
“It’s nothing,” I forced a smile.
“Just out for a walk.”
Dr. Arthur sighed. He clearly didn’t believe me but was kind enough not to press.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. “Did you ever go for that checkup I mentioned?”
I shook my head. Last month, I had fainted at the farmers market, and it was Dr.
Arthur—out for his morning run—who had found me. He insisted on taking me to the hospital, saying I was severely anemic and needed further tests. “You don’t look like it’s nothing,” Dr.
Arthur said, his brow furrowed. “Are you having any chest pain?”
I froze, surprised by his perceptiveness. It was true.
Ever since leaving my son’s apartment, a dull ache had been spreading across my chest as if an invisible hand were squeezing my heart. “A little tightness,” I admitted in a small voice. His expression turned serious.
“You have to get that checked out at the hospital. Does your son know about this?”
The word son was like a needle pricking my heart. I shook my head and managed a weak smile.
“He’s so busy with work. I don’t want to bother him.”
“No matter how busy he is, he can’t just neglect his mother,” Dr. Arthur said indignantly.
“Was it easy for you raising him all by yourself? Everyone on our old street knows you worked three jobs to put him through college. And now he—”
“Arthur,” I cut him off gently.
“I’d like to be alone for a little while.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but held back. Finally, he patted my shoulder and stood up. “I’m on call at the hospital at nine.
You have to come in. Just tell them you’re my patient. You won’t have to wait.”
I nodded, watching his retreating figure jog away, my heart a tangle of emotions.
He was right. Everyone on our old street knew that I, Helen, had given everything for my son. But now the soup I made was poured down the drain, and my care had become a source of bad luck.
The park started to fill with people—seniors doing their morning exercises, young professionals rushing to catch the bus. I looked at them and suddenly felt a loneliness more profound than any I had ever known. After my husband died, Daniel became my entire reason for living.
He got into a good college, found a great job, got married—every step he took filled me with pride. But when did I become a burden in his life? When the sun had fully risen, I leaned on my cane and started the slow walk home.
As I passed a trash can, I saw a familiar thermos—the one I had left at my son’s door this morning. The lid was open, and it was completely empty. My chicken soup.
They had really thrown it away. Back home, I collapsed onto the sofa in exhaustion. On the coffee table lay a lighter Daniel had left behind when he came for dinner last week.
I picked it up, rubbing its smooth surface, and remembered his adorable smile as a child. He had been so thoughtful—giving me back rubs and saving his allowance to buy me hand lotion. The phone suddenly rang.
I struggled to reach for it. “Mom, it’s me.”
It was Daniel’s voice, as casual as ever, as if the hurtful words from this morning had never been spoken. “Chloe said she saw a thermos by the door.
You came by?”
“Yes,” I said, gripping the receiver as the ache in my chest returned. “I brought you some chicken soup.”
“Oh, Mom, I’ve told you not to go to so much trouble,” he said, his voice laced with false concern. “Chloe has a sensitive stomach.
She can’t just eat anything. You shouldn’t bother with this in the future.”
“All right.”
“Oh, by the way,” his voice suddenly filled with excitement, “I heard our old neighborhood is scheduled for redevelopment. Those old townhouses of yours must be worth a fortune now.”
My eyes shot open.
The redevelopment was just a rumor. I had never mentioned it to him. “Who told you that?” I asked cautiously.
“Just some guys at work were talking,” he stammered. “Mom, if it’s true, what are you planning to do with the houses?”
I was silent for a moment, then said slowly, “I haven’t thought about it.”
“You’re getting older, Mom. You should let me handle things like this.” His tone turned eager.
“I know a few developers. I can get you the best possible deal.”
My heart sank. Those five townhouses were everything my husband had left me—my only safety net for retirement.
No matter how difficult things got, I had never once considered selling them, wanting only to pass them down to my son and grandchildren. “We’ll see,” I answered quietly. “I’m a little tired.
I’m going to hang up now.”
After putting down the phone, I went to the window and looked out at the bright sunshine. When had the son I was so proud of become someone who only cared about my assets, and the daughter‑in‑law I had treated as my own had called me an old hag? A sharp pain shot from my chest down my left arm.
I stumbled, catching myself on the windowsill as cold sweat soaked through my shirt. I fumbled in my pocket for Dr. Arthur’s handkerchief.
His phone number was embroidered on the corner. In the last moment before my vision blurred, I dialed it. “Arthur, it’s Helen.
My heart—it hurts so much.”
I slowly opened my eyes to the glare of fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. A white ceiling, pale blue curtains, and the IV needle in the back of my hand. I was in the hospital.
“Helen, you’re awake.”
Dr. Arthur’s face came into view, his brow creased with worry. “You had an acute myocardial ischemia.
Any later and it would have been very dangerous.”
I tried to sit up, but he gently pushed me back down. “Don’t move. We haven’t finished the EKG.”
“What… what happened to me?” My voice sounded strange to my own ears.
“Insufficient blood flow to the heart,” Dr. Arthur said, adjusting the IV drip. “We need to run more tests.
Does your son know you’re here?”
The word son was another needle in my heart. I shook my head. “Don’t—don’t tell him.”
Dr.
Arthur paused, then sighed. “I’m going to do my rounds. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.
You get some rest. Don’t move around.”
After he left, I watched the fluid drip, drop by drop, into my vein. My thoughts drifted back to the words I had overheard at my son’s door that morning—old hag, bad luck.
Every word was a knife twisting in my chest. From outside my room, I could hear nurses talking. “That poor woman in 302—it’s her fourth miscarriage.”
“Shh.
Keep it down. Her husband doesn’t know yet. I heard she hides it every time—just pretends it’s a bad period.”
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the phrase hides it from her husband caught my attention.
For some reason, I thought of my daughter‑in‑law, Chloe. She and Daniel had been married for five years without children. Whenever I asked, she’d say they were trying.
When the IV bag was empty, I felt much better. Dr. Arthur said I needed to stay for two days of observation and had me sign a stack of forms for various tests.
At three in the afternoon, he personally wheeled me down for a cardiac ultrasound. As we passed the obstetrics department, the sound of a shrill argument erupted from one of the exam rooms. “What kind of useless hospital is this?
You can’t even save one baby!”
That voice—it was unmistakably Chloe’s. “Mrs. Daniel, your uterine lining is too thin.
It’s not suitable for pregnancy,” a doctor explained patiently. “Shut up. I didn’t pay all this money to listen to you lecture me!” Chloe shrieked.
“If my husband finds out I miscarried again—”
Dr. Arthur and I froze in the hallway, staring at each other. The exam room door flew open and an enraged Chloe stormed out, nearly colliding with my wheelchair.
When she saw me, her face went white as a sheet. “Mom—what are you doing here?” she stammered, her eyes darting around. “My heart isn’t feeling well,” I said softly.
“What about you? What’s wrong?”
“I—I…” She frantically tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Just a routine gynecological checkup.”
A female doctor emerged from the room and stopped short when she saw us.
“Mrs. Daniel, your test results—”
Chloe snatched the report from her hand, stuffed it in her purse, and forced a smile. “Mom, let me take you back to your room.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Dr.
Arthur said coolly. “We have another test to get to.”
Chloe looked as if she’d been granted a pardon. “Well, you get some rest,” she said quickly and fled down the hall.
I watched her go, a thick fog of suspicion clouding my mind. “Is that your daughter‑in‑law?” Dr. Arthur asked as he pushed my wheelchair forward.
“She seems to have quite a temper.”
I gave a bitter smile and didn’t answer, but I knew the truth. Chloe had been lying to Daniel all along. She was the one who couldn’t have children, but kept pretending they were trying.
The ultrasound went smoothly. The doctor said my heart showed some signs of ischemia, but nothing too serious. I just needed to manage it with lifestyle changes.
Back in my room, a nurse brought in some mail that had been forwarded from the community center. I opened it and froze. It was an official notice of redevelopment.
Due to urban renewal, the entire Elm Street district was scheduled for demolition and reconstruction. It was there in black and white. All five of my townhouses were in the redevelopment zone.
The assessed value was $18,000 per square foot. I did a quick calculation. For all five properties, it was nearly ten million dollars.
My hands started to shake. These properties, left to me by my husband, were our life’s savings, bought with every penny we’d scrimped and saved. Though old, they were in a prime location.
The rental income provided a steady stream of money—my nest egg for retirement. My cell phone rang. It was Daniel.
I took a deep breath before answering. “Mom—Chloe said she ran into you at the hospital. What’s wrong?” His voice was unusually urgent.
“Which hospital are you at? I’m coming over right now.”
My heart skipped a beat. In all these years, he had never been so anxious when I was sick.
Was he worried about me—or had he found out about the redevelopment? “It’s nothing, just a little anemia,” I said, deliberately downplaying it. “Dr.
Arthur insisted I stay for observation.”
“I’m on my way,” he said, and hung up before I could finish. Less than half an hour later, Daniel burst into the room with a frantic‑looking Chloe trailing behind him. I noticed her eyes were red and swollen.
She had clearly been crying. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Daniel squeezed my hand, his eyes filled with a concern I hadn’t seen in years. “What did the doctor say?”
“It’s nothing serious,” I replied calmly.
“I just need to rest for a few days.”
Chloe sidled up, her face plastered with a fake smile. “Mom, you scared us to death. The second Daniel heard you were in the hospital, he dropped an important meeting and rushed right over.”
I looked at her perfectly shaped eyebrows and bright lipstick and remembered her hysteria outside the OB/GYN office.
Just how many things had this woman hidden from my son? “By the way,” Daniel asked, trying to sound casual, “I heard our old neighborhood is being redeveloped. Is that true?”
There it was.
I laughed coldly to myself but kept my face impassive. “Yes. I just got the notice.”
“That’s fantastic.” His eyes lit up.
“Those old houses are finally worth something. Mom, what are you planning to do?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said slowly. “Maybe I’ll keep one for myself, and the rest—”
“Let me handle it,” Daniel interrupted eagerly.
“I know people at the redevelopment office. I can get you a better compensation package. You’re getting older.
You shouldn’t have to worry about these things.”
“That’s right, Mom,” Chloe chimed in. “Daniel is your only son. If he doesn’t help you, who will?”
I watched this couple—one echoing the other—and the dull ache in my chest returned.
The greed in their eyes was barely concealed, as if the houses were already theirs. “We’ll see,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’m tired.
I want to sleep.”
After they left in high spirits, I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years—my husband’s old friend, the lawyer Robert Fischer. “Robert, it’s Helen,” I said, my voice catching. “I need your advice on something.”
Robert’s law firm was located in an old office building downtown.
Three days after being discharged from the hospital, I came there, leaning on my cane. The slight feeling of weightlessness as the elevator ascended made my heart uneasy again. “Helen.”
Robert stood at his office door to greet me.
He looked much older than the last time I’d seen him—his hair completely white—but he still stood tall and straight. “It’s been too many years.”
I took his hand, my eyes welling up. “Robert, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, helping me to a seat and pouring me a cup of hot tea himself.
“After John passed, I failed to look after you and your son.”
At the mention of my late husband, I nearly broke down in tears. Robert and my husband had been college roommates. Later, one went into politics, the other into business, but they had remained close friends.
After my husband’s death, Robert visited us often until five years ago, when he went abroad with his son for his studies. “Your son’s name is Daniel, right? How is he doing?” Robert asked.
I gave a bitter smile and told him everything that had happened recently—the redevelopment notice, my son’s sudden concern, and stumbling upon Chloe’s secret at the hospital. Robert listened, his brow furrowed. He got up and pulled a file from his cabinet.
“Helen, there’s something you need to know.”
Inside the file were several consultation records, all bearing Daniel’s signature. “Last month, Daniel came to my office to inquire about the validity of a senior citizen’s will,” Robert said heavily. “He asked if a child could apply to change guardianship and property management rights if the parent had dementia or was mentally incompetent.”
My hands began to tremble, the words on the page blurring before my eyes.
“I thought it was a routine inquiry, so I didn’t think much of it,” Robert added. “But now it seems he’s targeting you.”
I put the file down, my voice surprisingly calm. “Robert, what should I do about my will?”
“First, you need a legally recognized assessment of your mental state,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Second, it’s best to set up a trust for your will, stipulating that the inheritance can only be claimed after your natural death. If anything unexpected happens, the assets will be donated to charity.”
“A trust,” I repeated the unfamiliar word. “And one more thing,” Robert lowered his voice.
“Be careful—especially with your food and medication.”
My heart sank. He was implying that Daniel might try to harm me. After leaving the law firm, I didn’t go straight home.
I went to the city planning office to get more details about the redevelopment. An employee told me there were two compensation options: a cash payout or a replacement home in the new development. A decision had to be made within three months.
“Mrs. Helen,” a friendly staff member whispered, “your son was here yesterday. He said he wanted to handle the paperwork for you.”
I thanked him and left, a heavy stone in my heart.
Daniel was already eager to get his hands on my property. When I got home, I took out all my property deeds and bank books to inspect them. Sure enough, the position of several deeds had been shifted.
There were also marks on the combination lock of my safe—signs of a failed attempt to open it. But what chilled me to the bone was that the order of the bottles in my medicine cabinet had been changed. Someone had been tampering with my medication.
I collapsed onto the sofa, a cold dread washing over me. This was the son I had raised with so much love and sacrifice. For money, he was willing to disregard his own mother’s life.
The phone rang abruptly. It was Daniel. “Mom, where have you been?
I called you several times,” he said, a note of accusation in his voice. “I just went for a walk,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm. “Oh.” He clearly didn’t believe me, but didn’t press.
“Chloe made some chicken soup. We’ll bring it over tonight.”
After hanging up, I immediately packed a bag with my regular medications and a few changes of clothes. Then I sent a text message to Dr.
Arthur asking if he could recommend a reliable lab for testing. At six that evening, Daniel and Chloe arrived as promised, carrying a pot of chicken soup and several boxes of nutritional supplements. Chloe was cloyingly attentive, personally serving me soup and insisting on watching me drink it.
“Mom, this is an imported iron supplement,” Daniel said, holding out a box of elegantly packaged blue vials. “One a day. It’s especially good for your heart.”
I took the box, pretending to read the instructions carefully, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him exchange a look with Chloe.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling as I placed the supplements on the coffee table. “I’ll drink it later.”
“Drink it now, Mom,” Chloe said, her tone almost a command. “I’ll only feel at ease once I’ve seen you drink it,” Daniel chimed in.
“That’s right, Mom. Chloe bought this especially for you.”
Under their watchful eyes, I had no choice but to open a vial and pretend to take a few sips, holding the liquid in my mouth until I could find a chance to spit it out. Only then was Chloe satisfied.
She served me a bowl of chicken soup. After they left, I immediately spat the liquid into the toilet and flushed it several times. Then I found an empty pill bottle in the medicine cabinet, poured the remaining supplements into it, and sealed it tightly.
The next morning, I took this bottle of evidence to the lab Dr. Arthur had recommended. During the two days I waited for the results, I did three things.
First, I went to the bank and transferred my savings to a new account. Second, I contacted the local senior center and signed up for some activities. Third, I pretended to have a heart attack and called Daniel.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” His voice on the other end sounded distant, drowned out by the noise of a busy conference room. “My heart—it hurts,” I said weakly. “Can you come over?”
“I’m in an important meeting,” he said impatiently.
“I’ll call an ambulance for you.”
Half an hour later, the ambulance arrived. When the paramedics found that I was only feeling slightly unwell, their attitude cooled considerably. “Ma’am, please don’t call an ambulance unless it’s a real emergency,” a young paramedic scolded.
“You’re wasting medical resources.”
I apologized profusely, but my heart was cold as ice. This was my son. He wouldn’t even come to see his mother when he thought she was dying—just sent an ambulance to deal with it.
The test results came back on the third day. Dr. Arthur delivered them to my house himself, his face grim.
“Helen,” he said, handing me a report. “These supplements contain a low dose of a digitalis‑like substance. Long‑term use can cause cardiac arrhythmia and, in severe cases, death.”
My hand trembled so violently the report rustled in my grasp.
My own son. Was he really trying to poison me? “Have you called the police?” Dr.
Arthur asked. I shook my head. “It’s not enough.”
“What’s not enough—the evidence?”
I took a deep breath.
“Robert—my lawyer, Robert Fischer—said I need to gather more.”
Dr. Arthur looked at me in shock, as if he were seeing this frail old woman for the first time. He nodded slowly.
“All right. What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing for now,” I said with a weak smile. “But if my condition worsens, please—you must come.”
He squeezed my hand tightly.
“Call me anytime. Twenty‑four hours a day.”
After Dr. Arthur left, I looked at the schedule for the senior center.
There was a legal seminar the next day presented by a retired judge named Wallace. I circled the time. I had decided to go and meet this expert.
That evening, Daniel called, feigning concern about my health. I deliberately spoke in a weak, breathy voice, telling him the doctor said my condition wasn’t good and I needed long‑term rest. “Mom, don’t you worry,” he said, his voice suddenly eager.
“Chloe and I will take care of you. By the way—have you thought any more about the redevelopment?”
“I… I think I’ll leave it all to you,” I said weakly. “But I need to write a will first.”
“A will?” His voice jumped an octave.
“You—you’re writing a will?”
“Yes. I have an appointment with my lawyer tomorrow,” I said vaguely. “Just in case something happens to me.”
“Mom, don’t talk like that,” he interrupted hastily.
“You’re going to live a long, long time. So… what time are you meeting the lawyer tomorrow? Chloe and I should go with you.”
The fish was on the hook.
A cold smile touched my lips, but my voice remained frail. “No, that’s all right. You’re both so busy with work.”
The activity room at the senior center was warm and bright.
About two dozen seniors gathered to listen to Judge Wallace explain the laws protecting the rights of the elderly. He looked to be in his early seventies, his silver hair neatly combed, his voice strong and clear. “A living trust is the most effective way to protect your assets,” Judge Wallace said, adjusting his reading glasses.
“Especially when you suspect your children might harm you for your property.”
My heart leaped. This was exactly the information I needed. After the seminar, I waited until everyone else had left before approaching him and introducing myself.
When he heard I was a friend of Robert Fischer, he became very cordial. “Mrs. Helen, is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
I briefly explained the situation with the redevelopment and my son, omitting the part about the poisoned supplements. “You need to do three things,” he said, holding up three fingers. “First, get a mental competency evaluation to prove you are of sound mind.
Second, establish a living trust. And third, gather evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“Evidence that proves your son has malicious intent,” he said, lowering his voice. “For example, audio or video recordings.
If you were to create a will leaving him everything, how would he react?”
My heart pounded. This was exactly what I had been planning to do. When I left the senior center, I had Judge Wallace’s business card and a few legal pamphlets in my purse.
As I reached the entrance, I saw Daniel’s car parked by the curb. He and Chloe hurried out and walked toward me. “Mom, what are you doing here?” Daniel asked, a look of concern on his face.
“Didn’t you say you were meeting your lawyer today?”
I feigned surprise. “What are you two doing here?”
“We were worried about you,” Chloe said, linking her arm through mine, her grip so tight it hurt. “You’re not well.
You shouldn’t be out by yourself.”
I noticed her eyes kept darting to my purse, clearly trying to see if I had already drawn up a will. “I was just at a seminar,” I said vaguely. “I rescheduled the appointment with the lawyer.”
“You can’t do that,” Daniel almost shouted.
Realizing his outburst, he lowered his voice. “Mom, you can’t delay something like this. Why don’t we go today?
I know a very good lawyer.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, starting toward the bus stop. “I’ve already made an appointment with Robert Fischer.”
“Robert?” Daniel’s face changed. “Isn’t he still overseas?”
“He’s back,” I said lightly.
“He’s handling it for me.”
Daniel and Chloe exchanged an uneasy glance. They were unusually silent on the drive home. It wasn’t until we were at my door that they put on their smiles again.
“Mom,” Daniel said, opening the door for me, “you get some rest. We’ll bring dinner over tonight.”
After they left, I immediately searched every corner of my apartment. Sure enough, I found a tiny camera hidden in the living‑room light fixture and another in a bedroom outlet.
My heart sank, but a new resolve hardened within me. If they were going to spy on me, then I would give them a show. I changed into my pajamas, lay down weakly in bed, and deliberately muttered to myself in view of the camera, “Oh, I’m getting weaker and weaker.
I need to get this will sorted out quickly.” Then I dialed Robert Fischer’s number and said loudly, “Robert, I’ve made up my mind. I’m giving all the houses to Daniel. Yes, all of them.
He’s my only son, after all.”
After hanging up, I pretended to cough and stumbled dramatically to the medicine cabinet. With a trembling hand, I poured a glass of water and took my medication. (The pills were just vitamins.)
That evening, Daniel and Chloe arrived as expected, bringing hot food with them.
As soon as Chloe entered, she solicitously helped me to a seat, served me soup, and piled food on my plate, her words as sweet as honey. “Mom, how did your talk with Robert go today?” Daniel asked casually. “It… it went well,” I said with a weak nod.
“I’m signing the papers in a couple of days.”
A flicker of delight crossed Chloe’s eyes, quickly replaced by a look of concern. “Mom, you look very pale. Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No, no,” I shook my head.
What happened next changed everything…
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