The doctor gave me six months, I told my family. They rushed over immediately, eager 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.
My 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 Beatrice, looked me in the eye instead of at my possessions.
I took a sip of water to wet my dry throat.
The doctors say I have about six months.
Edward leaned forward instantly, his manicured fingers clutching the linen napkin.
Mother, we must be realistic. Emotions wont help. Your estateall your assetsmust be arranged properly. There must be a clear plan.
Margaret chimed in, her voice sweet but insistent, like a market trader haggling over a rug.
And the house Edward and I thought we should have it valued. Just for formalitys sake, you understand? To avoid disputes later.
They didnt even pretend to care. They went straight to businessnumbers, square footage.
Only Beatrice stayed silent. Slowly, she stood, walked behind me, and laid her hands on my shoulders. Her palms were warm and trembling slightly.
The next day, Margaret arrived with an estate agent. Just to get an idea of the market value, Mother. No obligation.
A polished young man measured rooms with a laser tape while Margaret whispered about how inconvenient the bathroom layout was and how prices have dropped in this area.
Edward called three times that morning. Not to ask how I was. He demanded financial reports and the corporate solicitors details.
Business is a living organism, Mother. It cant stagnate. Any delay is money lost.
I gave him everything he asked for. Or rather, I made it seem like I did. Calmly, methodically.
They scurried about, dividing, planning. So engrossed in my inheritance, they forgot one thing: I was still alive.
One evening, the doorbell rang. Beatrice stood there, holding two containers of homemade food. She didnt ask about wills or valuers.
I brought you chicken broth and a shepherds pie. You need to eat properly.
She sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand.
Mother, if you need anything to talk, or just company, just say the word.
I looked at her tired face after her night shift, at her simple, necessary kindness.
A week later, Edward and Margaret arrived together. With a solicitor.
Mother, weve prepared a draft will, Edward announced. To make things easier. Weve accounted for everythingdivided it fairly.
Margaret handed me a thick folder.
Your final wishes must be flawless. No legal complications.
I scanned the documents. Every last penny, every assetmeticulously split between them.
Beatrices name barely appeared: a neglected cottage in Cornwall and an old car.
I looked up. They watched me expectantly, barely hiding their impatience. Waiting for my signature. My final act.
But this wasnt the end. Only the beginning.
Thank you for your concern, I said evenly. Ill review it. Give me a few days.
When the door closed, I went to the safe. Took out another folderthe one my solicitor had prepared a month ago, right after the doctors visit.
And I called Beatrice.
Darling, can you come? I need your help.
She arrived within the hour. No questions, no fuss. She sat opposite me in the armchair Margaret had already mentally tossed out.
Mother, whats wrong? You look different.
I handed her a thin foldera power of attorney. In her name.
I need you to do a few things. It wont be easy, but you must help me.
She took it. Her fingers traced the lines.
Of course. What do you need?
This is a marathon, not a sprint, I began. First, meet my solicitor. Hell explain everything.
Well transfer assets graduallyno sudden moves. No attention.
Beatrice looked surprised but didnt argue.
Your brother and sister will think theyre in control. Let them.
She didnt ask why. Didnt ask why her, not Edward. She trusted me.
The next day, I called Edward.
Son, you were right. Affairs must be settled. But I dont want you distracted from the main business. Take charge of the old factory in Yorkshire. Audit itonly you can handle it.
I sent him 200 miles away to deal with a failing business Id planned to shut anyway. He left, puffed with self-importance.
Margaret got another task.
Darling, youre right about cataloguing. Photograph everythingfor insurance, for the solicitor. You have such good tastedo this for me.
So she did. For weeks, she inventoried every vase, every painting. Convinced she was listing her future property.
Meanwhile, Beatrice, after her hospital shifts, met solicitors and accountants. Signed papers, opened accounts, moved funds in small sums. Slow but steady.
I consulted Edward about a commercial property in London.
You know best, son. Find a buyer.
He pounced on it. Negotiated personally. Certain the sale proceeds would go to the company accountsoon to be his.
He didnt know Beatrice had signed a deed of gift a week prior. The money went to her new account.
Two months passed. I weakened visibly. Playing the part wasnt hardI *was* tired. Not from illness, but from years of disappointment.
Edward suspected first. The factory audit stalled, and he returned to London. Our financial advisor called him.
Edward, your mothers restructuring assets oddly. Are you aware?
That evening, he burst in unannounced. Face red, eyes blazing.
Mother, whats happening? Why are you selling off the portfolio?
I looked at him wearily.
Medical bills, son. Swiss clinics, consultations terribly expensive.
He didnt believe me.
That was millions! You couldnt have spent it all!
Margaret followed. A gallery owner had mentioned seeing your familys Impressionist collection in a sales catalogue.
Mother, what have you done?! Selling heirlooms for pennies!
They loomed over me, shouting. About money. Assets. Inheritance.
They didnt care about meonly their slipping fortune.
Wheres the money, Mother? Edward hissed. Just tell us.
Then Beatrice walked in.
Why are you shouting? She shouldnt be stressed.
Edward turned on her.
Stay out of this! Its not your concern!
Time to end the charade.
I stood. My voice rang clearno frailty.
She *is* the concern. Unlike you.
They froze.
What? Edward stammered.
She owns this house. Everything in it. And more.
I turned to Beatrice.
Forgive me for involving you. But I had to be sure.
Sure of what?! Margaret shrieked. That we want whats rightfully ours?!
Rightfully? I smiled. What claim do you have on what you never valued?
I looked at Edward.
The money hasnt vanished. It just has a new owner. Every penny.
His face paled.
You gave it all to *her*?
I gave it to the one who brought me broth, not a solicitor. Who held my hand, not an inventory.
I picked up their draft will. Shook it.
This? Just paper.
Then tore it in half.
How *could* you? Margaret whispered.
I could do much more, I said coldly. Like live.
A heavy silence.
What? Edward breathed.
Im not dying, I said clearly. The doctor diagnosed severe stress cardiomyopathy. He said if I didnt change my life, I had six months. So I did. Radically.
Shock turned to fury.
You *lied*?! Edward roared. This whole charadewhy?!
To see what I already knew, I replied. Your true faces.
Margaret sobbedrage and helplessness.
Youve taken everything from us! Your own children!
You took it from yourselves the day you brought an estate agent instead of comfort.
I looked at Beatrice. Pale, wide-eyed.
Its alright, darling. Everythings alright now.
I opened the front door.
Now please leave.
Edward stepped forward, fists clenched.
Youll regret this. Well contest it! Prove you werent sound of mind!
Try, I shrugged. Every transaction had a medical affidavit. My solicitor saw to that.
But your pressuring a sick mother? That
