“Mum, you’re unwell, just sign here,” said my daughter-in-law as she slipped something into my tea, unaware Ive been recording everything on a hidden camera for weeks.
“You need rest, Evelyn,” cooed Ingrid, setting down a cup of steaming herbal brew. “Your nerves are shotyouve said so yourself.”
Her voice was smooth as honey, but Id long learned to spot the shards of glass behind her eyes.
I sat in my old wingback chair, its fabric still holding the memory of my late husbands touch. I watched as Ingrid pulled a small, unmarked vial from her dressing gown pocket. A few drops fell into my chamomile tea.
Shed been doing this for two weeks. Thought I didnt notice. Believed me to be just a frail, senile old woman.
“And whats this, dear?” I feigned a weak, trembling voice, gesturing at the stack of papers in her hands.
Ingrid gave me that same condescending smilethe one reserved for the forgetful. I was certain shed practised it in the mirror.
“Just a formality, Mum. The doctor says your memorys failing. So Derek and I can take proper care of you, we need power of attorney. Sign here, and no more worries.”
She didnt know the tiny camera lens, hidden in the eye of the porcelain owl on the mantel, captured her every move. That owl was my late husbands last indulgencean engineer with a penchant for spy gadgets.
“For emergencies, Evie,” hed said when installing it. Id laughed then. Now, it was my only ally.
My son, my Derek, had been married to this woman for six months. Six months of him gazing at her like she was some divine saviour after his messy divorce. He never saw the shift in her expression when she thought I wasnt looking. Never heard her serpentine whispers into the phone: “Soon. The old bats on her last legs. A little longer, and the house will be ours.”
I reached out, making sure my hand trembled.
My fingers “accidentally” knocked over the cup.
The hot liquid, reeking of medicine, spilled across the documents, smudging the ink over the words “full and unrestricted rights to all property.” For a split second, Ingrids mask slippeda flash of feral rage.
“Oh dear, what have I done?” I stammered, eyes wide at the ruined papers. “My hands just wont behave…”
“Dont fret, Mum,” she hissed through clenched teeth, jaw tight. “I have copies.”
That evening, Derek came home exhausted. Ingrid met him at the door, winding around him like ivy, whispering complaints. She was a brilliant actress.
From my room, I caught fragments: “…getting worse… spilled everything… Im so worried, darling…”
When she flitted off to shower, I went to the kitchen. Derek sat rubbing his temples. His favourite lasagneIngrids specialtysat untouched.
She knew his habits, his weaknesses. Shed built him a perfect world where he felt loved and safe.
“Derek, we need to talk.”
He looked up, heavy-eyed. The look of a man who didnt want his comfort shattered.
“Mum, Im knackered. Can it wait?”
“No. Its about Ingrid. And these papers she keeps pushing on me.”
And there she wassilken dressing gown, damp hair smelling of expensive perfume.
“Darling, dont listen. Shes confused again. The doctor warned usstress makes it worse.”
I tried to protest, but she was flawless, seizing control.
“Mum, we only want to help. Last week, you left the iron on. Nearly burned the place down.”
A brazen lie. I hadnt ironed in months. But Derek stared at me with such earnest concern… and pity. He wanted to believe her. The alternativeadmitting his perfect wife was a liarwas too terrifying.
“Mum, is that true?”
“Of course not! Son, shes making it up! Shes putting something in my tea!”
My voice cracked into a shout. Exactly what she wantedto paint me as a hysterical old woman.
“Ingrids right. You need rest,” Derek said softly but firmly, standing. He hugged my shoulders. “Well handle everything. Just trust us.”
The blow stole my breath. My own son didnt believe me. Hed chosen her illusion.
The next day, they brought a “doctor.” A fidgeting man with darting eyes and the scent of mothballs, hired through some advert. He asked nonsensical questions, mixed up dates, then declared to Derek:
“Advanced dementia. Power of attorney is urgentshe could do real harm.”
He spoke of me like furniture.
Ingrid watched, triumph barely hidden. She slid the papers and pen toward me.
“There, Evelyn. Its confirmed. No more delayssign.”
I stared at the pen in her hand. At her hungry, victorious gaze. At my son beside her, face etched with grief for the mother he thought was fading.
Inside, I seethed. But I nodded weakly. The act had to continue. Until the end.
The breaking point came with the books.
On Saturday morning, I found cardboard boxes in the hall. Stacked like firewood inside were my husbands precious books from his study.
Ingrid hummed as she taped another box shut.
“Whats this?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, Mum! Good morning!” She didnt even glance up. “Just clearing out these dust collectors. Well recycle themno need for clutter. The air will be fresher.”
