“Mum, you’re unwelljust sign here,” murmured my daughter-in-law, slipping something into my tea, unaware that I’d been recording everything on a hidden camera for weeks.
“You need rest, Evelyn,” cooed Imogen, setting down a steaming cup of herbal infusion. “Your nerves are shot, you said so yourself.”
Her voice was honey-sweet, but I’d long learned to spot the jagged edges behind her doe-like gaze.
I sat in my worn wingback chair, its upholstery still holding the memory of my late 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 two weeks now. Thought I hadnt noticed. Saw me as a frail, senile old woman, easy to manipulate.
“And these, dear?” I feigned a weak, trembling voice, gesturing to the stack of papers in her hands.
Imogen flashed me that same patronising smilethe one I was certain shed practised in the mirror.
“Its just a formality, love. The doctor says your memorys slipping. Sign here, and Daniel and I can take proper care of you. No more worries.”
She didnt know the porcelain owl on the mantelpiece housed a micro-camera lens, capturing her every move. A final whimsy from my late husband, an engineer with a fondness for spy gadgets.
“Just in case, Evie,” hed said, fitting it in place. Id laughed then. Now, that owl was my only ally.
My son, my Daniel, 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 never saw the way her face twisted when she thought I was asleep. Never heard her serpent-soft whispers into the phone: “Soon. The old bats on her last legs. A little longer, and the house is ours.”
I reached out, deliberately 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 rights to all movable and immovable property.” For a heartbeat, Imogens mask slippedher true face, sharp and vicious, flickering into view.
“Oh dear, what have I done?” I stammered, eyes wide with false alarm. “My handsthey wont obey me…”
“Not to worry, love,” she hissed through clenched teeth, jaw tight beneath that perfect complexion. “Ive got copies.”
That evening, Daniel came home exhausted. Imogen met him at the door, winding around him like ivy, murmuring poison into his ear. She was a brilliant actress.
From my room, I caught fragments: “getting worse spilled everything Im so scared for her, darling”
When she flitted off to shower, I found Daniel at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples. His favourite lasagneImogens specialtysat steaming before him.
She knew his habits, his weaknesses. Shed built him a perfect little world where he felt safe. Loved.
“Daniel, we need to talk.”
He looked up, weary. The gaze of a man who didnt want his comfort disturbed.
“Mum, Im shattered. Cant it wait?”
“No. Its about Imogen. And these papers she keeps pushing at me.”
Thenas if summonedshe appeared in the doorway. Silk robe clinging, damp hair scented with expensive perfume.
“Darling, dont listen. Shes confused again. The doctor warned usstress makes it worse.”
I tried to protest, but she was flawless, steering the narrative.
“Sweetheart, we only 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 Daniels facepainted with such earnest concern, such pitytold me he wanted to believe her. The alternativeadmitting his perfect wife was a liarwas too much to bear.
“Mum, is that true?”
“Of course not! Shes poisoning my tea, Daniel! Shes”
My voice cracked into a shout. Exactly what she wanted. The hysterical, broken old woman.
“Imogens right. You need peace,” Daniel said softly, standing to embrace me. “Well handle everything. Just trust us.”
The air left my lungs. My own son didnt believe me. Hed chosen her illusion.
The next day, they brought a “doctor.” A twitchy little man with darting eyes and the stench of mothballs, hired through some back-alley advert. He fired off nonsense questionsmixing up dates, namesbefore declaring to Daniel:
“Advanced dementia. Guardianship must be arranged immediately, or shell be a danger to herself.”
He spoke of me like a piece of furniture.
Imogen watched, triumph glinting behind feigned concern, as she slid the papers toward me once more.
“There, Evelyn. Its settled. No more delaysjust sign.”
I stared at the pen in her hand. At her wolfish, victorious smile. At my son, standing beside her, face heavy with grief for the mother he thought was fading before him.
Inside, I burned. But I only gave a feeble nod.
The show had to go on.
The breaking point came with the books. That Saturday morning, I stepped into the hallway to find cardboard boxes stacked high. My late husbands precious librarytossed inside like firewood.
Imogen hummed as she taped another box shut.
“Whats this?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, love! Good morning!” She didnt even glance up. “Just clearing out this dust-collector clutter. Well recycle itfree up space. Youll breathe easier.”
The air thickened. The camera in the owls eye watched.
And I smiled.
Let her think shed won.
The final act wasnt hers to write.
