“The doctor gave me six months,” I told my family. They rushed over at once to divide the house, unaware it was just the first move in my game.
I watched my children gathered around the dining table in my sitting room and saw three strangers staring back at me.
The eldest, forty-year-old Edward, sat with the tense expression of a man already counting his chickens before they hatched.
Margaret, my thirty-five-year-old daughter, cast greedy, appraising glances at the paintings on the walls and the antique sideboard.
Only the youngest, thirty-year-old Emily, looked not at the valuables but straight into my eyes.
I took a sip of water to ease my dry throat.
“The doctors say I have about six months.”
Edward leaned forward instantly, his manicured fingers tightening around the linen napkin.
“Mum, we must be realistic. Set emotions aside. Affairs cant wait. Your empireall your assetsmust be transferred in working order. There must be a clear, precise plan.”
Margaret nodded, her voice honeyed and insistent, like a market trader haggling over Persian rugs:
“And the house Edward and I thought we should call in a valuer. Just for formalitys sake, you understand? To avoid disputes later.”
They didnt even pretend to be sympathetic. They went straight to business, to numbers and square footage.
Only Emily stayed silent. She stood slowly, came behind me, and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her palms were warm and trembled slightly.
The next day, Margaret arrived with an estate agent. “Just to get a valuation, Mum, to know the market pricethis isnt a commitment.”
A polished young man paced the rooms with a laser measure while Margaret whispered about the “unfortunate” bathroom placement and how “prices for period homes in this area have dropped.”
Edward phoned three times before noon. Not to ask how I was. He demanded access to financial reports and the corporate solicitors contacts.
“Business is a living organism, Mum. It cant sit idle. Every delay is money lost.”
I gave him everything he asked for. Or at least, I made it seem that way. Calmly. Methodically.
They scurried about, dividing, planning. They were so engrossed in my inheritance that they forgot one thingI was still alive.
One evening, the doorbell rang. Emily stood on the doorstep with two containers of homemade food. She didnt ask about the will or valuers.
“I brought you chicken soup and shepherds pie. You need to eat well.”
She sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand.
“Mum, if you need anything to talk or just for me to be here, just say the word.”
I looked at her tired face after her night shift, at her simple, precious words.
A week later, Edward and Margaret arrived together. With a solicitor.
“Mum, weve prepared a draft will,” Edward announced at once. “To make it easier for you. Weve accounted for everything, divided it fairly.”
Margaret handed me a thick folder.
“Your final wishes must be flawless. No legal complications later.”
I opened the documents. Everything was itemised down to the last silver teaspoon. My house, my shares, my savingsall meticulously split between them.
Emilys name was only mentioned in passing: a neglected cottage in Cornwall and an old car.
I looked up at them. Their eyes gleamed with barely concealed impatience. They were waiting for my signature. My final act.
But this wasnt the end. It was only the beginning.
“Thank you for taking care of this,” I said evenly. “Ill review it carefully. Give me a few days.”
When the door closed behind them, I went to the safe. I pulled out another folderthe one my solicitor had prepared a month ago, right after my doctors visit.
And I called Emily.
“Darling, can you come over? I need your help.”
Emily arrived within the hour. No questions. No fuss. She sat across from me in the armchair Margaret had mentally earmarked for the skip.
“Mum, whats happened? You look different.”
I handed her a slim folder with a power of attorney. A general one. In her name.
“I need you to do a few things. It wont be easy, and itll take time. But you must help me.”
She took the document, her fingers tracing the lines slowly.
“Of course. What do I need to do?”
“Its a marathon, not a sprint,” I began. “First, youll meet my solicitor. Hell brief you.”
Hed prepare documents for the banks and brokers. No sudden moves. Wed transfer assets gradually, avoiding attention.
Emily gave me a puzzled look but stayed silent.
“Your brother and sister will think theyre in control. Ill let them believe it.”
She didnt ask why. She didnt ask why her, not Edward. She simply trusted me.
The next day, I called Edward.
“Son, Ive been thinking you were right. Affairs must be managed. But I dont want you distracted from your main business. Take charge of our old factory in Yorkshire. Sort out the accounts, conduct an audit. Its a complex assetno one else can handle it.”
I sent him two hundred miles away to deal with a near-bankrupt business Id planned to close anyway. He left, swelling with self-importance.
For Margaret, I had another task.
“Darling, youre right about the valuables. We need a full inventory. Photograph everything. For the solicitor, for insurance. You have such good tasteyou handle this.”
And she did. For weeks, she catalogued every vase, every painting. She was convinced she was listing her future property.
Meanwhile, Emily, after her shifts at the hospital, met solicitors and financial advisors. She signed papers, opened new accounts, transferred funds in small increments. It was painstaking but secure.
I “consulted” Edward about one of my assetsa small commercial building in central London.
“You understand these things, son. Find a buyer. Handle the deal.”
He seized the idea like a terrier. He found a buyer, negotiated terms. He was certain the sale proceeds would go to the company accountsoon to be his.
He didnt know that a week before completion, Emily signed a deed of gift. The money went to her new private account.
Two months passed. I weakened visibly. Playing the role wasnt hardI was tired. But not from an illness. From years of disappointment.
Edward was the first to suspect. The factory audit stalled, and he returned to London. Our shared financial advisor called him.
“Edward, your mother is restructuring assets strangely. Are you aware?”
That evening, he stormed in unannounced. Face red, eyes blazing.
“Mum, whats happening? Why are you selling off the portfolio piece by piece?”
I looked at him wearily.
“What money, son? Im paying for treatment at a Swiss clinic. Consultations, procedures its dreadfully expensive.”
He didnt believe a word.
“There were millions! You couldnt have spent it all on consultations!”
Margaret arrived soon after. A gallery owner had mentioned seeing “your familys Impressionist collection” in a pre-sale catalogue.
“Mum, what have you done?! Youre selling heirlooms for pennies!”
They stood over me, shouting. About money. About assets. About inheritance.
They didnt care about me. They mourned not my impending death but their slipping fortune.
“Wheres the money, Mum?” Edward hissed, leaning close. “Just tell me where it is.”
Then Emily walked in.
“What are you shouting about? Mum shouldnt be distressed.”
Edward turned on her.
“Stay out of this! Its none of your concern!”
Thats when I knew the performance was over.
I stood slowly. My voice was clear, strongno trace of frailty.
“She is the mistress here. Unlike you.”
Edward and Margaret froze.
“What are you on about?” Edward recovered first. “What mistress?”
“The one,” I said, stepping forward, “who owns this house. And everything in it. And beyond it.”
I turned to Emily.
“Forgive me for involving you. But I had to be certain.”
“Certain of what?!” Margaret shrieked. “That we want whats rightfully ours?!”
“Rightfully?” I smiled. “What right do you have to what you never valued?”
I looked at Edward.
“The money hasnt vanished. Its just changed hands. Every penny.”
Edwards face paled.
“You you gave it all to her?”
“I gave it to the one who brought me soup, not a solicitor. The one who held my hand, not an inventory.”
I picked up their folder and shook it.
“This is just paper.”
Then I tore their “will” in half.
“How could you” Margaret whispered.
“I could do more,” I said coldly. “For instance, I could live.”
A heavy silence fell.
“What?” Edward choked.
“Im not dying,”
