“The doctor gave me six months,” I told my family. They rushed over immediately to divide the house, unaware it was only the first move in my game.
I looked at my children gathered around the dining table in my sitting room and saw three strangers staring back at me.
My eldest, forty-year-old Edward, sat with the tense expression of a man already counting his chickens before they hatched.
Margaret, 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 Eleanor, looked me in the eye instead of at my possessions.
I took a sip of water to ease my dry throat.
“The doctors say I have about six months.”
Edward leaned forward instantly, his manicured fingers crumpling the linen napkin.
“Mum, we have to be practical. Lets not get emotional. Business cant wait. Your estate, all your assetsthey need to be transferred in good order. There must be a clear, precise plan.”
Margaret chimed in, her voice sweet yet insistent, like a market stall vendor haggling over a Persian rug.
“And the house Edward and I were thinking we should get a valuer in. Just for formalitys sake, you understand? To avoid disputes later.”
They didnt even pretend to be sympathetic. They went straight to business, to numbers and square footage.
Only Eleanor stayed silent. She stood slowly, walked around the table, and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her palms were warm and trembled slightly.
The next day, Margaret arrived with an estate agent. “Just to get a valuation, Mum. No obligations.”
A slick young man walked through the rooms with a laser measure while Margaret whispered about the “poor layout” of the bathroom and how “prices for older properties in this area have dropped.”
Edward called three times that morningnot to ask how I was, but to demand access to financial records and the contact details of our corporate solicitors.
“Business is a living organism, Mum. It cant stand still. Every delay is money lost.”
I gave him everything he asked foror at least, I made it seem that way. Calmly, methodically.
They scurried about, dividing, planning. They were so consumed by my inheritance, they forgot one crucial detail: I was still alive.
One evening, there was a knock at the door. Eleanor stood on the doorstep with two containers of homemade food. She didnt ask about the will or valuers.
“I brought you chicken soup and a shepherds pie. You need to eat well.”
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 looked at her tired face, fresh from a night shift, and heard the quiet sincerity in her words.
A week later, Edward and Margaret arrived togetherwith a notary.
“Mum, weve drafted a will for you,” Edward announced. “To make things easier. Weve accounted for everything, divided it fairly.”
Margaret handed me a thick folder.
“Your final wishes must be executed flawlessly. No legal complications later.”
I opened the documents. Everything was listed down to the last silver teaspoon. My house, my shares, my savingsall meticulously split between them.
Eleanors name barely appearedjust a neglected cottage on the outskirts and an old car.
I looked up at them. Their faces were expectant, barely masking impatience. They were 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 everything carefully. Give me a few days.”
When the door closed behind them, I went to the safe. Inside was another folderone prepared by my solicitor a month ago, right after my doctors visit.
And I called Eleanor.
“Darling, 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 Margaret had already mentally tossed out.
“Mum, whats wrong? You look different.”
I handed her a slim folder containing a power of attorney. A sweeping one. In her name.
“I need you to do a few things. It wont be easy, and 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 me to do?”
“Its a marathon, not a sprint,” I began. “First, meet with my solicitor. Hell walk you through the details.”
“Hell prepare documents for the banks and brokers. No sudden moves. Well shift assets gradually to avoid suspicion.”
Eleanors eyes widened, but she stayed silent.
“Your brother and sister will think theyre in control. Ill let them believe it.”
She didnt ask why. She didnt ask why I chose her over Edward. She simply trusted me.
The next day, I called Edward.
“Son, Ive been thinking you were right. We must handle business. But I dont want you distracted from the core operations. Take charge of our old factory in Yorkshire. Sort out the audits. Its a complex assetno one else can manage it.”
I sent him two hundred miles away to deal with a near-bankrupt business Id already planned to shut down. He left, puffed up with self-importance.
For Margaret, I had another task.
“Darling, you were right about cataloguing everything. We need a full inventoryphotographs, descriptions. For the solicitors, for insurance. You have such good tasteplease handle this.”
And she did. For weeks, she combed through the house, listing every vase, every painting. She believed she was compiling her future inheritance.
Meanwhile, Eleanorafter her hospital shiftsmet with lawyers and financiers in the evenings. She signed papers, opened new accounts, transferred funds in small increments. Painstakingly slow, but secure.
For Edward, I “sought advice” on a commercial property in central London.
“You know this world better, son. Find a buyer. Handle the deal.”
He seized the opportunity, negotiating eagerly, convinced the sale proceeds would go to the company accountsoon to be his.
He didnt know Eleanor had signed a deed of gift a week before the sale. The money went straight to her new account.
Two months passed. I grew weaker in their eyes. Playing the part wasnt difficultI *was* tired. Not from illness, but from years of disappointment.
Edward was the first to suspect something. The factory audit stalled, and he returned to London. Our shared financial advisor called him.
“Edward, your mothers restructuring assets oddly. Are you aware?”
That evening, he barged in unannounced, face red, eyes blazing.
“Mum, whats going on? Why are you selling off the portfolio piece by piece?”
I looked at him with weary eyes.
“What money, son? Im paying for treatment in Switzerland. Consultations, procedures its expensive.”
He didnt believe a word.
“There were millions! You couldnt have spent it all on consultations!”
Margaret arrived next. A gallery owner had let slip that our “family collection of Impressionists” was in a pre-sale catalogue.
“Mum, what have you done? Youre selling heirlooms for pennies!”
They loomed over me, shouting about money, assets, inheritance.
They didnt care about me. They mourned not my impending death, but their slipping fortune.
“Wheres the money, Mum?” Edward hissed, leaning in. “Just tell us where it is.”
Then Eleanor walked in.
“Why are you shouting? Mum shouldnt be stressed.”
Edward turned on her.
“Stay out of this! Its none of your business!”
Thats when I decided the charade was over.
I stood slowly. My voice was clear, strongno trace of frailty.
“She *is* the business. Unlike you.”
Edward and Margaret froze.
“What are you on about?” Edward snapped.
“The owner of this house. And everything in it. And beyond.”
I turned to Eleanor.
“Im sorry I dragged you into this. But I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?!” Margaret shrieked.
“Of what I already knew,” I said calmly. “Of your true faces.”
Edwards face paled.
“You you gave it all to *her*?”
“I gave it to the one who brought me soup, not a notary. The one who held my hand, not an inventory list.”
I picked up their draft will from the table.
“This,” I said, shaking the papers, “is just paper.”
Then I tore it in half.
“How could you” Margaret whispered.
“I could do much more,” I said coldly. “For example*live*.”
A heavy silence.
“What?” Edward choked out.
“Im not dying,” I said clearly. “The doctor diagnosed severe stress cardiomyopathy. He said if I didnt change my life, I had six months
