“Mum, you’re unwelljust sign here,” urged my daughter-in-law, slipping something into my tea, unaware I’d been filming her with a hidden camera for weeks.
“You need rest, Evelyn,” crooned Imogen, setting a steaming cup of herbal infusion on the table. “Your nerves are shotyou said so yourself.”
Her voice was honey-sweet, but years ago, I’d learned to spot the shards of glass behind her eyes.
I sat in my threadbare wingback chair, its fabric still holding the ghost of my husbands touch. I watched as Imogen pulled a small, unmarked vial from her dressing gown pocket. A few drops fell into my chamomile tea.
Shed been doing this for weeks. Thought I hadnt noticed. Saw me as nothing but a frail old woman, her mind gone to seed.
“And whats this, dear?” I feigned a tremor in my voice, pointing at the stack of papers in her hands.
Imogen flashed me that same condescending smilethe one I knew shed practiced in the mirror.
“Its just a formality, love. The doctor says your memorys failingyou keep forgetting things. This lets me and James take proper care of you. Sign here, and no more worries.”
She didnt know about the micro-camera embedded in the eye of the porcelain owl on the mantel. My late husbands last indulgencean engineer with a taste for spy gadgets.
“Just in case, Evie,” hed said, fitting it in. Back then, Id laughed. Now, that owl was my only ally.
My son, my James, had been married to this woman six months. Six months of him gazing at her like shed descended from heaven to rescue him after his messy divorce.
He never saw the twist of her mouth when she thought I wasnt looking. Never heard her serpent-whisper on the phone: “Soon. The old bats hanging by a thread. A little longer, and the house is ours.”
I reached outdeliberately letting my hand shake.
Fingers “accidentally” knocked over the cup.
The hot, bitter liquid spilled across the documents, ink bleeding over the words “full and unrestricted authority over all assets.” For a heartbeat, Imogens mask slippedher face sharp, feral. Then it was gone.
“Oh, what have I done?” I stammered, staring at the ruined papers. “My hands wont obey me…”
“Not to worry, love,” she said through clenched teeth, jaw tight beneath her perfect smile. “Ive got copies.”
That evening, James came home exhausted. Imogen met him at the door, winding around him like ivy, murmuring poison in his ear. She was a brilliant actress.
Fragments drifted from my room: “…getting worse… spilled everything… Im so scared for her, darling…”
When she flitted off to shower, I found James at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples. His favourite shepherds pie sat steaming in front of himImogens doing. Shed memorised his habits, his weaknesses. Built him a perfect world where he felt loved.
“James, we need to talk.”
He looked up, weary. The gaze of a man who didnt want his cocoon torn apart.
“Mum, Im shattered. Can it wait?”
“No. Its about Imogen. About these papers shes pushing on me.”
Then she appearedsilken robe, damp hair smelling of expensive perfume.
“Jamie, dont listenshes confused again. The doctor said no stress.”
She cut me off effortlessly, seamless in her role.
“Love, were trying 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 James stared at me with such earnest concern… such pity. He wanted to believe her. The alternativeadmitting his perfect wife was a liarwas too much.
“Mum, is that true?”
“Of course not! Shes slipping something into my tea!”
My voice crackedexactly what she wanted. Hysterical. Unstable.
“Imogens right. You need rest,” James said softly, standing to embrace me. “Well handle things. Just trust us.”
The air left my lungs. My own son didnt believe me. Hed chosen her illusion.
Next day, they brought a “doctor.” A twitchy man with mothball stench and darting eyes, hired through some back-alley ad. He fired nonsense questions, mixed up dates, then declared to James:
“Advanced dementia. File for guardianship now, or shell be a danger to herself.”
He spoke of me like a broken appliance.
Imogen watched, triumph thinly veiled. She slid the papers forward again.
“There, Evelyn. All confirmed. Lets not delayjust sign.”
I stared at the pen in her hand. At the victory in her gaze. At my son, standing beside herhis face etched with grief for the mother he thought was fading.
Inside, I burned. But I only nodded weakly. The play wasnt over yet.
The breaking point came with the books. That Saturday, I stepped into the hall to find cardboard boxes piled high. My husbands treasured librarytossed inside like firewood.
Imogen hummed as she taped another shut.
“Whats this?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, love! Good morning!” She didnt even look up. “Just clearing out these dust collectors. Off to recyclingwhy hoard junk? The airll be fresher.”
