**Diary Entry A Mothers Reckoning**
*The doctor gave me six months,* I told my family. They rushed over immediately, eager to divide the houseunaware it was only 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.
Edward, my forty-year-old eldest, sat stiffly, his mind already tallying assets like a man counting chickens before theyve hatched.
Margaret, my thirty-five-year-old daughter, eyed the paintings and antique dresser with the calculating gaze of a Mayfair auctioneer.
Only the youngest, thirty-year-old Beatrice, looked me in the eyes.
I took a sip of water to steady myself.
*The doctors say I have about six months.*
Edward leaned forward, his manicured fingers tightening around the linen napkin. *Mum, we must be practical. Emotions wont help. Your empirethe assets need managing. We need a clear plan.*
Margaret chimed in, her voice honeyed but insistent, like a market trader haggling over silver. *And the house Edward and I thought we should bring in a valuer. Just for fairness, you understand?*
They didnt bother pretending to care. They went straight to numbers, square footage, inheritance.
Only Beatrice stayed silent. She stood, walked behind me, and placed warm, trembling hands on my shoulders.
The next day, Margaret arrived with an estate agent. *Just for a valuation, Mumno obligations.* The slick young man measured rooms with a laser tape while Margaret whispered about *unfavourable plumbing* and *declining prices in this postcode.*
Edward called three times before noonnot to ask how I felt, but demanding financial reports and the corporate solicitors details. *Business is a living organism, Mum. It cant stagnate. Delay means losses.*
I gave them what they wantedor made it seem so. Calmly, methodically.
They scurried, divided, plotted, so consumed by my fortune they forgot one thing: I was still alive.
Then one evening, Beatrice knocked on my door with two containers of homemade food. She didnt ask about wills or valuations. *I brought chicken broth and a shepherds pie. You need to eat well.* She sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand. *Mum, if you need anythingjust to talk, or for me to be heresay the word.*
A week later, Edward and Margaret returnedwith a solicitor. *Mum, weve drafted a will,* Edward announced. *Everythings fair, no disputes.* Margaret handed me a thick folder. *Your last wishes must be flawlessno legal complications.*
I skimmed the documents. Every penny, every heirloom, meticulously split between them. Beatrices name appeared only in a footnote: a neglected cottage in Cornwall and an old Volvo.
I looked up. Their expectant faces barely hid their impatience.
*Thank you for your concern,* I said evenly. *Ill review it.*
When they left, I opened the safe. Inside was another folderprepared by my solicitor a month priorand I called Beatrice. *Darling, I need your help.*
She arrived within the hour, no questions, no fuss. *Mum, whats wrong?*
I handed her the power of attorney. *There are things we must do. It wont be easy.*
She read it silently, then nodded. *Tell me what to do.*
*A marathon, not a sprint,* I said. *First, meet my solicitor. Hell guide you. Well move assets quietlyno sudden moves.*
She didnt ask why her, not Edward. She simply trusted me.
The next day, I called Edward. *You were right about the business. But focus on the old factory in Yorkshiresort the audit. Only you can handle it.*
I sent him 200 miles away to salvage a failing enterprise Id already decided to close.
To Margaret, I said, *Youre right about cataloguing the house. Photograph everythingfor insurance.* She spent weeks inventorying *her* future possessions.
Meanwhile, Beatrice met solicitors, signed papers, shifted fundsslowly, meticulously.
Two months passed. Edward grew suspicious first. The factory audit stalled, and our financial advisor called him. *Your mothers restructuring assets. Are you aware?*
That evening, Edward stormed in, red-faced. *Mum, what are you doing? Why sell off shares?*
I sighed. *The Swiss clinic treatments are expensive, darling.*
He didnt believe me. *Millions, Mum! You couldnt spend that on consultations!*
Margaret arrived next, livid. A gallery contact had mentioned *your familys Impressionist collection* in a sale catalogue. *Mum, how could you? Selling heirlooms for pennies!*
They shouted over meabout money, assets, inheritance. Not a word about *me*.
Then Beatrice walked in. *Stop shouting. She doesnt need this.*
Edward sneered. *Stay out of it. This isnt your business.*
Time to end the charade.
I stood, my voice clear and strong. *Actually, it is. Unlike you.*
They froze.
*What are you on about?* Edward spat.
*Beatrice owns this house. Everything in it. And more.*
I turned to her. *Forgive me for involving you. But I had to be sure.*
*Sure of what?!* Margaret shrieked. *That we deserve whats rightfully ours?*
*Rightfully?* I laughed. *What right do you have to what you never valued?*
Edward paled. *You gave it all to her?*
*To the one who brought me broth, not a solicitor. Who held my hand, not an inventory list.*
I picked up their willand tore it in half.
*How could you* Margaret gasped.
*I could do much more. Like live.*
Silence.
*What?* Edward croaked.
*Im not dying. The doctor diagnosed severe stress cardiomyopathy. He said if I didnt change my life, I had six months. So I did.*
Their shock turned to fury.
*You lied?!* Edward roared. *This whole farcewhy?*
*To see what I already knew. Your true faces.*
Margaret sobbed. *Youve stolen from us! Your own children!*
*You stole from yourselves the day you brought an estate agent instead of comfort.*
I opened the front door. *Leave.*
Edward clenched his fists. *Youll regret this. Well contest it in court!*
*Try. Every transaction had a medical affidavit. But your pressure on a dying mother? Thats a different story.*
They left, hatred in their eyes.
Beatrice approached me. *Mum I dont need any of this.*
*I know. Thats why its yours.*
**Five Years Later**
The noise faded. Edward hired top solicitors, but the paperwork was airtight. He gambled on risky ventures, certain of his inheritanceand went bankrupt. Now hes a sales manager at a firm hed once scorned. He doesnt call.
Margarets husband left when the money dried up. She sold their mansion, moved to a flat, and accused me of ruining her life.
*Your reflection in the mirror did that,* I replied.
She never called again. Beatrice still funds her nephews educationher choice, and I respect it.
We travel nowNorthern Lights in Norway, cherry blossoms in Kyoto. Some evenings, we sit on the terrace in silence.
Once, she asked, *Mum, do you ever regret it?*
I glanced at the garden, at her calm face.
*Not for a second.*
My lie gave me truth. It burned bridges no one cared to crossand built one, unshakable, to my daughter.
The doctor gave me six monthsto stop being an ATM, a function, a resource. To be a person.
I squeezed Beatrices hand. *Thank you for bringing me that soup.*
She smiled. *It was just soup, Mum.*
But we both knew it wasnt. It was a choice. And shed made the right one.
