“The doctor gave me six months,” I told my family. They rushed over immediately to divide the house, unaware it was merely the first move in my game.
I looked at my children gathered around the dining table in my sitting room and saw three complete strangers staring back at me.
Eldest, forty-year-old Richard, sat rigid-faced, already mentally carving up the hide of a bear that wasnt even dead yet.
Elizabeth, my thirty-five-year-old daughter, cast greedy, appraising glances at the paintings on the walls and the antique dresser.
Only the youngest, thirty-year-old Emily, met my eyesnot focused on possessions, but on me.
I took a small sip of water to wet my dry throat.
“The doctors estimated I have about six months.”
Richard leaned forward instantly, his manicured fingers gripping the linen napkin.
“Mother, we must be realistic. Emotions aside, practical matters cant wait. Your empireyour assetsmust be transferred in working order. We need a clear, precise plan.”
Elizabeth chimed in, her voice sweet yet insistent, like a market trader haggling over Persian rugs.
“And the house Richard and I thought it best to bring in a valuator. Just for formalitys sake, you understand? So theres no dispute latereverything fair and square.”
They didnt even bother pretending to care. They went straight to the pointnumbers, square footage, cold hard value.
Only Emily stayed silent. She rose slowly, came behind me, and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her palms were warm and trembling slightly.
The next day, Elizabeth arrived with an estate agent. “Just a quick look, Mumonly to gauge the market value. No obligations.”
The slick young man paced the rooms with a laser measure while Elizabeth whispered about “poorly positioned bathrooms” and “falling prices in this postcode.”
Richard called three times before noon. Not to ask how I was. He demanded access to financial reports and corporate lawyers contacts.
“Business is a living organism, Mother. It cant sit idle for a day. Every 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 consumed by my inheritance, they forgot one crucial detailI was still alive.
One evening, the doorbell rang. Emily stood on the doorstep with two containers of homemade food. She didnt ask about wills or valuators.
“I brought chicken soup and a shepherds pie. You need to eat properly.”
She sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand.
“Mum, if you need anythingto talk or just for me to be herejust say the word. Ill do it.”
I studied her tired face, the dark circles from her night shift, the simplicity of her wordsyet how desperately I needed them.
A week later, Richard and Elizabeth arrived together. With a solicitor.
“Mother, weve drafted a will,” Richard announced the moment he stepped in. “To make things easier. Weve accounted for everything, divided it all fairly.”
Elizabeth handed me a thick folder.
“Your final wishes must be legally impeccable. No complications later.”
I unfolded the documents. Every last thing was accounted formy house, my shares, my savings, all meticulously split between them.
Emilys name was barely mentionedjust a neglected cottage on the outskirts and an old car.
I lifted my gaze. They watched expectantly, barely masking 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 carefully. Give me a few days.”
When the door shut behind them, I walked to the safe. Retrieved another folderthe one my solicitor had prepared a month ago, right after my doctors visit.
And I called Emily.
“Sweetheart, can you come over? I need your help.”
She arrived within the hour. No questions. No fuss. She sat across from me in the armchair Elizabeth had already mentally tossed into a skip.
“Mum, whats wrong? You look different.”
I handed her the slim folder containing a power of attorney. Full control. In her name.
“I need you to do a few things. It wont be easy. Itll take time. But you must help me.”
She took the document, her fingers tracing the lines slowly.
“Yes. Of course. What do you need?”
“Its a marathon, not a sprint. First, youll meet my solicitor. Hell bring you up to speed.”
Hed prepare the paperwork for banks and brokers. No sudden moves. Wed shift assets gradually, avoiding suspicion.
Emily looked stunned but stayed silent.
“Your brother and sister will think theyre in control. Ill let them believe it.”
She didnt ask why. Didnt ask why her, not Richard. She simply trusted me.
The next day, I called Richard.
“Darling, Ive been thinking you were right. We must handle the business. But I dont want you distracted from the core operations. Focus on the old factory in Derbyshire. Audit it. Get it in order. Its a complex assetonly you can manage it.”
I sent him two hundred miles away to unravel a near-bankrupt enterprise Id planned to shut down anyway. He left, inflated with self-importance.
For Elizabeth, a different task.
“Sweetheart, youre right about the inventory. We need a full catalogueevery vase, every painting. For the solicitor, for insurance. Youve such fine tastewould you handle it?”
And she did. For weeks, she catalogued, photographed, appraised. So certain she was itemising her future possessions.
Meanwhile, Emily, after her hospital shifts, met lawyers and accountants. Signed papers. Opened new accounts. Moved funds in small, untraceable sums. Slow. Steady.
I “consulted” Richard about a commercial property in central London.
“You understand these things, darling. Find a buyer. Handle the sale.”
He seized it like a lifeline. Personally secured a buyer, negotiated terms. So sure the proceeds would go to the company accountsoon to be his.
He didnt know that a week before completion, Emily signed a deed of gift. The money went to her new private account.
Two months passed. I weakened before their eyes. Playing the role wasnt hardI was exhausted. Not by illness, but by a lifetime of disappointment.
Richard noticed first. His audit hit a dead end, and he stormed back to London. Our shared financial advisor called him.
“Mr. Harrington, your mothers restructuring assets strangely. Are you aware?”
That evening, he barged in unannounced, face red, eyes blazing.
“Mother, whats happening? Why are you liquidating the portfolio piecemeal?”
I looked at him wearily.
“What money, darling? Swiss clinics dont come cheap. Consultations, procedures it adds up.”
He didnt believe a word.
“Millions, Mother! You couldnt have spent it all on consultations!”
Elizabeth arrived soon after. A gallery owner had let slipshed seen “your familys Impressionist collection” in a pre-sale catalogue.
“Mother, what have you done? Youre selling heirlooms for pennies!”
They loomed over me, shouting. About money. About assets. About inheritance.
They didnt care about me. They mourned not my impending death, but their slipping fortune.
“Where is the money, Mother?” Richard hissed, leaning in. “Just tell us where it is.”
Then Emily walked in.
“Why are you shouting? She doesnt need this stress.”
Richard rounded on her.
“Stay out of this! Its none of your concern!”
Thats when I knewtime to end the charade.
I stood slowly. My voice rang clearno frailty, no tremor.
“She has every right. Unlike you.”
Richard and Elizabeth froze.
“What are you saying?” Richard demanded.
“What right?”
“The right of ownership,” I stepped forward. “Of this house. Everything in it. And beyond.”
I turned to Emily.
“Forgive me for dragging you into this. But I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” Elizabeth shrieked. “That we want whats rightfully ours?”
“Rightfully?” I smiled. “What claim do you have on what you never valued?”
I locked eyes with Richard.
“The money hasnt vanished. Its merely changed hands. Every last penny.”
His face paled.
“Youyou gave it all to her?”
“I gave it to the one who brought me soup. Not a solicitor. The one who held my hand. Not an inventory sheet.”
I walked to the table, picked up their will, shook the pages.
“This” I tore it clean in half. “is just paper.”
Elizabeth gasped.
“You cant”
“Oh, I can. And more.” My voice hardened. “I can live, for one.”
A heavy silence.
“What?” Richard whispered.
