“Mum, youre not welljust sign here,” my daughter-in-law said sweetly, pouring something into my tea. She had no idea Id been recording everything on a hidden camera for weeks.
“You need rest, Evelyn,” sang Lillian, setting a steaming cup of herbal brew on the table. “Your nerves are shotyou 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 upholstery still holding the memory of my late husbands touch. I watched as Lillian slipped a tiny, unmarked bottle from her dressing gown pocket. A few drops fell into my chamomile tea.
Shed been doing this for two weeks. Thought I didnt notice. Thought I was just a doddering old woman whod lost her mind.
“Whats this, dear?” I asked weakly, pointing to the stack of papers in her hands.
Lillian gave me that same patronising smilethe one shed clearly practised in the mirror.
“Its just a formality, love. The doctor says your memorys been slipping. So Derek and I can take proper care of you, we need power of attorney. Sign here, and its all sorted.”
She didnt know the tiny lens embedded in the porcelain owl on the mantelpiece was capturing her every move. The owl had been my husbands last whiman engineer with a fondness for spy gadgets.
“Just in case, Evie,” hed said when he installed 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 looking at her like she was some angel sent to save him after his messy divorce.
He never saw her face shift when she thought I was asleep. Never heard her serpent-soft whispers on the phone: “Soon. The old bats nearly gone. A little longer, and the house is ours.”
I reached out, making my hand tremble on purpose.
My fingers “accidentally” knocked over the cup.
Hot liquid, sharp with a medicinal tang, spilled across the documents, blurring the ink over the words “full and unrestricted control over all assets.” For a second, Lillians mask slippedher true face, sly and vicious, flickered into view.
“Oh dear, what have I done?” I stammered, feigning horror at the ruined papers. “My hands just wont behave…”
“Dont worry, love,” she said through clenched teeth, jaw tight beneath that perfect complexion. “Ive got copies.”
That evening, Derek came home exhausted. Lillian met him at the door, wrapping around him like ivy, murmuring complaints into his ear. 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 my son. He sat at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples, a plate of his favourite lasagne in front of himLillians specialty.
Shed studied him. Learned his habits, his weak spots. Built him a perfect little world where he felt loved, safe.
“Derek, we need to talk.”
He looked up, weary. The gaze of a man who didnt want his cosy bubble popped.
“Mum, Im knackered. Cant it wait till tomorrow?”
“No. Its about Lillian. And those papers she keeps pushing at me.”
Right on cue, she appeared in the doorwaysilk robe, damp hair smelling of expensive perfume.
“Derek, sweetheart, dont listen. Shes confused again. The doctor said no stress.”
I tried to argue, but she was flawless, steering the conversation.
“Love, we just want to help. Last week, you left the iron on. Nearly burned the place down.”
A bold-faced lie. I hadnt touched the iron in months. But Derek looked at me with such genuine worry… and pity. He wanted to believe her. Because the alternativeadmitting his perfect wife was a liarwas too terrifying.
“Mum, is that true?”
“Of course not! 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, broken old woman.
“Lillians right, you need rest,” Derek said softly but firmly, standing to hug me. “Well handle things. Just trust us.”
It winded me. My own son didnt believe me. Hed chosen her illusion.
The next day, they brought in a “doctor.” A twitchy man with shifty eyes and the scent of mothballs, someone Lillian had found through an ad. He asked me nonsense questions, mixed up names and dates, then declared to Derek:
“Advanced dementia. Youll need guardianship immediatelyshe could do real harm otherwise.”
He spoke about me like I was a piece of furniture.
Lillian watched with barely concealed triumph. She slid the papers and a pen toward me.
“There we are, Evelyn. Its confirmed. Best not to delayjust sign.”
I stared at the pen in her hand. At her greedy, victorious look. At my son beside her, his face full of sorrow for the mother he thought was fading away.
Inside, I seethed. But I only gave a feeble nod. The act had to continue. Right until the end.
The breaking point came with the books. On Saturday morning, I stepped into the hall and saw cardboard boxes. Stacked inside, like firewood, were the books from my husbands study.
Lillian hummed as she taped another shut.
“Whats this?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, love, morning!” She didnt even turn. “Just clearing out this dust-collector clutter. Off to recyclingno need for all this junk, eh? Youll breathe easier.”
