“Mum, youre unwelljust sign here,” murmured the daughter-in-law, slipping something into my tea, unaware that I had been recording everything on a hidden camera for weeks.
“You need rest, Evelyn,” sang Imogen, setting a steaming cup of herbal infusion on the table. “Your nerves are shotyou said so yourself.”
Her voice dripped like golden syrup, but behind her honeyed gaze, Id long learned to spot the glint of shattered glass.
I sat in my old wingback chair, its faded upholstery still holding the memory of my husbands touch. I watched as Imogen drew a small, unmarked vial from her dressing gown pocket. A few drops fell into the chamomile blend.
Shed been doing this for weeks. Thought I didnt notice. Believed me to be a feeble old woman losing her wits.
“And whats this, dear?” I feigned frailty, my voice wobbling as I pointed to the stack of papers in her hands.
Imogen gifted me that same patronising smile reserved for the senile. No doubt rehearsed before the mirror.
“Its just a formality, darling. The doctor says your memorys slippingyou keep forgetting things. A simple power of attorney, so Matthew and I can care for you properly. Sign here, and no more fuss.”
She didnt know the porcelain owl on the mantelpieceits glass eye a hidden lenswas capturing her every move. A final eccentricity of my late husband, an engineer obsessed with spy gadgets.
“Just in case, Evie,” hed said, installing it. Id laughed then. Now, the owl was my only ally.
My son, my Matthew, had been married to this woman for six months. Six months of him gazing at her like some divine saviour sent to mend his broken heart after the divorce.
He never saw her face shift when she thought I was asleep. Never heard her serpent whispers on the phone: “Soon. The old bats nearly there. A little longer, and the house will be ours.”
I reached out, deliberately letting my hand tremble.
Fingers “accidentally” tipped the cup.
Hot liquid, sharp with the tang of medicine, spilled across the documents. Ink bled, dissolving the words “full and unrestricted rights to all movable and immovable property.” For a heartbeat, Imogens mask slippedher true face, sharp and venomous, flickered into view.
“Oh, what have I done?” I stammered, eyes wide at the ruined papers. “My hands just wont obey…”
“Not to worry, darling,” she hissed through clenched teeth, jaw tight beneath that perfect complexion. “Ive copies.”
That evening, Matthew returned, weary. Imogen met him at the door, winding around him like ivy, whispering grievances into his ear. She was a brilliant actress.
Fragments drifted from my room: “getting worse spilled everything Im so frightened for her, love…”
When she fluttered off to shower, I found my son at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples. His favourite lasagneImogens masterpiecesteamed before him.
Shed studied him, learned his weaknesses. Built him a world where he felt safe. Loved.
“Matthew, we need to talk.”
He lifted tired eyesthe look of a man clinging to his fragile peace.
“Mum, Im exhausted. Tomorrow?”
“No. Now. Its about Imogen. And these papers she keeps pushing at me.”
Then, as if conjured, she appeared in the doorwaysilken robe, damp hair smelling of expensive perfume.
“Darling, dont listen. Shes confused again. The doctor warned against stress.”
I tried to protest, but she was flawless, seizing control.
“Sweetheart, we only want to help. Last week, you left the iron on. Nearly burned the house down.”
A brazen lie. I hadnt touched the iron in months. But Matthew stared at me with such earnest worrysuch pity. He wanted to believe her. The alternative was too terrible.
“Mum, is that true?”
“Of course not! Shes drugging my tea!”
My voice cracked into a shoutexactly what she wanted. A hysterical, broken old woman.
“Imogens right. You need rest,” Matthew said softly, rising to embrace me. “Well handle everything. Just trust us.”
The breath left me. My own son didnt believe me. He chose her illusion.
The next day, they brought a “doctor”a fidgeting man with darting eyes and the scent of mothballs, hired through a classified ad. He asked nonsensical questions, muddled dates, then declared to Matthew:
“Advanced dementia. Guardianship must be arranged immediately, or she could cause harm.”
He spoke of me like furniture.
Imogen watched, triumphant, sliding the papers toward me.
“There, Evelyn. All confirmed. No more delayssign.”
I looked at the pen in her hand. At her hungry, victorious stare. At my son, standing beside her, face etched with grief for the mother he thought was fading.
Inside, I seethed. But I only nodded weakly. The performance had to continue.
The breaking point came with the books.
That Saturday, I stepped into the hallway to find cardboard boxes stacked like pyres, filled with my late husbands collection.
Imogen hummed as she taped another shut.
“Whats this?” My voice was a whisper.
“Oh, good morning, darling!” She didnt turn. “Clearing out these dust collectors. Off to recyclingwhy waste space? The air will be fresher.”
