**Diary Entry**
*10th May, 2024*
Mum, youre unwelljust sign here, my daughter-in-law murmured, slipping something into my tea. Little did she know Id been recording everything on a hidden camera for weeks.
You need rest, Evelyn, sang Ingrid, placing a steaming cup of herbal infusion on the side table. Your nerves are shot, youve said so yourself.
Her voice was pure honey, but Id long learned to spot the shards of glass behind her eyes.
I sat in my old wingback chair, its worn upholstery still holding the memory of my husbands touch. I watched as Ingrid pulled a small, unmarked vial from her dressing gown pocket. A few drops fell into the chamomile blend.
Shed been doing this for two weeks now. Thought I hadnt noticed. Thought I was just a helpless old woman losing her mind.
Whats this, dear? I feigned a shaky, frail voice, pointing at the stack of papers in her hands.
Ingrid gifted me that same condescending smilethe one I was sure shed rehearsed in the mirror.
Just formalities, Mother. The doctor says your memorys slipping. So Derek and I can take proper care of you, we need power of attorney. Sign here, and no more fuss.
She didnt know the tiny lens in the porcelain owl on the mantelpiece captured her every move. The owl had been my late husbands last indulgencean engineer with a taste for spy gadgets.
Just in case, Evie, hed said when installing it. Back then, Id laughed. Now, that owl 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 didnt see her face twist when she thought I was asleep. Didnt hear her serpentine whispers over the phone: *Soon. The old bats on her last legs. A little longer, and the house will be ours.*
I reached out, deliberately letting my hand tremble.
My fingers accidentally knocked over the cup.
The hot liquid, sharp with the tang of something medicinal, spilled across the documents. Ink bled over the words *full and unrestricted authority over all assets.* For a second, Ingrids mask slippedher true face, vicious and cold, flashed before she smoothed it back.
Oh dear, what have I done? I stammered, wide-eyed at the ruined papers. My hands just wont behave
No matter, Mother, she forced through gritted teeth, jaw tight. I have copies.
That evening, Derek returned, exhausted. Ingrid met him at the door, winding around him like ivy, whispering grievances in his ear. She was a brilliant actress.
Fragments floated down the hall: *getting worse spilled everything Im so worried, darling*
When she flitted off to shower, I found him in the kitchen, rubbing his temples. His favourite lasagne sat on the tableIngrids masterpiece.
Shed studied his habits, his weaknesses. Built him a perfect little world where he felt loved and safe.
Derek, we need to talk.
He lifted weary eyes to minethe look of a man who didnt want his comfortable bubble burst.
Mum, Im shattered. Cant it wait?
No. Its about Ingrid. And these papers she keeps pushing at me.
Right on cue, she appeared in the doorway. Silk robe, damp hair smelling of expensive perfume.
Darling, dont listen. Shes rambling again. The doctor warned usno stress.
I tried to argue, but she played her role flawlessly, steamrolling me.
Mother, we only want to help. Last week, you left the iron on. We nearly had a fire.
A bold-faced lie. I hadnt touched the iron in months. But Derek looked 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! Shes poisoning my tea!
My voice crackedexactly what shed wanted. To paint me as a hysterical, broken old woman.
Ingrids right. You need peace, Derek said softly but firmly, rising to embrace me. Well handle everything. Just trust us.
A gut punch. My own son didnt believe me. Hed chosen her illusion.
The next day, they brought in a doctor. A shifty little man with darting eyes and the faint reek of mothballssomeone Ingrid had found through an advert. He fired off nonsensical questions, mixed up names and dates, then declared with authority:
Advanced dementia. Immediate guardianship required, or shell be a danger.
He spoke of me like a piece of furniture.
Ingrid watched, triumph barely concealed. She slid the papers forward again.
There we go, Evelyn. All confirmed. No more delayssign.
I stared at the pen in her hand. At her wolfish, victorious gaze. At my son beside her, face etched with sorrow for the mother he thought was fading.
Inside, I seethed. But I only nodded weakly. The act had to continue. Right until the end.
The breaking point came with the books. That Saturday morning, I stepped into the hall to find cardboard boxes stacked high. My late husbands bookshis *lifes* collectiontossed in like firewood.
Ingrid hummed as she taped another box shut.
Whats this? My voice was a whisper.
Oh, good morning, Mother! She didnt even glance up. Just clearing out this dust-collecting clutter. Off to the recyclingno need for all this junk. Youll breathe easier.
