“Mum, you’re not welljust sign here,” cooed my daughter-in-law, slipping something into my tea, blissfully unaware I’d been filming her all along with the hidden camera.
“You need your rest, Margaret dear,” sang Felicity, setting a steaming cup of herbal infusion on the table. “Nerves in tattersyou said so yourself!”
Her voice was pure honey, but in the depths of her eyes, Id long learned to spot the glint of broken glass.
I sat in my old wingback armchair, its upholstery still holding the memory of my late husbands touch. I watched as Felicity fished a small, unmarked vial from her dressing gown pocket. A few drops fell into my chamomile tea.
Shed been at it for two weeks now. Thought I didnt notice. Thought I was just a dotty old bird, well past her prime.
“And this, dear?” I quavered, pointing weakly at the stack of papers in her hands.
Felicity gifted me that same pitying smile, the one reserved for the senile. Id bet my last pound shed practiced it in the mirror.
“Its just a formality, love. The doctor says your memorys slippingyou forget things. Just sign here, and well take care of everything. No more fuss.”
She didnt know the tiny camera lens embedded in the porcelain owl on the mantel was capturing her every move. That owl had been my late husbands last eccentric purchasean engineer with a fondness for spy gadgets.
“Just in case, Maggie,” hed said, installing it. Id laughed then. Now, it was my only ally.
My son, my Edward, had been married to this woman for six months. Six months of him gazing at her like shed descended from heaven to mend his broken heart after his messy divorce.
He never saw her face twist when she thought I wasnt looking. Never caught her hissed phone whispers: “Nearly there. The old bats on her last legs. A bit longer, and the house is ours.”
I reached out, making sure my hand trembled just so.
Fingers “accidentally” brushed the cup.
Hot liquid, sharp with a medicinal tang, spilled across the papers, blurring the ink on the words *”full and unrestricted rights to all movable and immovable property.”* For a single, unguarded moment, Felicitys mask slippedher face a flash of feral triumph. Then, just as fast, it was back.
“Oh dear, what have I done?” I stammered, eyes wide at the ruined documents. “My hands just wont behave!”
“Not to worry, love,” she gritted out, jaw tight beneath that flawless complexion. “Ive got copies.”
That evening, Edward came home exhausted. Felicity met him at the door, wrapping around him like ivy, whispering grievances into his ear. She was a brilliant actress.
From my room, I caught snippets*”absolutely dreadful spilt the lot Im so worried, darling”*
When she flitted off to shower, I cornered my son in the kitchen. He sat rubbing his temples, his favourite lasagne on the tableFelicitys specialty.
She knew his habits, his weaknesses. Shed built him a perfect little world where he felt safe.
“Edward, we need to talk.”
He looked up, weary. The look of a man who didnt want his cosy bubble burst.
“Mum, Im knackered. Cant it wait?”
“No. Its about Felicity. And those papers she keeps pushing at me.”
Right on cue, there she wassilky robe, damp hair smelling of expensive perfume.
“Eddie, dont listen to her, shes at it again. The doctor said no stress.”
I tried to argue, but she was flawless, steering the conversation.
“Sweetheart, were only trying to help. Last week, you left the iron onalmost burned the place down.”
Bold-faced lies. I hadnt ironed in a month. But Edwards faceso full of concern, so pityinghe *wanted* to believe her. The alternativethat his perfect wife was a liarwas too awful.
“Mum, is this true?”
“Of course not! Shes making it up! Shes putting something in my tea!”
My voice cracked. Exactly what she wantedhysterical old woman, losing her mind.
“Felicitys right. You need quiet,” Edward said softly, pulling me into a hug. “Well handle everything. Just trust us.”
A punch to the gut. My own son didnt believe me. Hed chosen her fantasy instead.
The next day, they brought in a “doctor”a shifty little man with darting eyes and the faint whiff of mothballs. He asked me nonsense questions, mixed up names and dates, then declared to Edward:
“Advanced dementia. Need guardianship fast, before she does something daft.”
Like I was a piece of furniture.
Felicity watched me, triumph barely concealed. She slid the papers forward again.
“Well, Margaret. Its confirmed. Best not delayjust sign.”
I looked at the pen in her hand. At her hungry, victorious stare. At my son beside her, face full of sorrow for the mother he thought was fading.
Inside, I was boiling. But I just nodded weakly.
The show had to go on.
The point of no return came in the form of books. One Saturday morning, I stepped out to find cardboard boxes in the hall. Piled insidemy late husbands library, stacked like firewood.
Felicity hummed as she taped another box shut.
“Whats this?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, morning, love!” She didnt even look up. “Just clearing out these dust collectors. Off to the charity shop. No need for clutter, eh?”
