“The doctor gave me six months,” I told my family. They rushed over immediately, eager 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 strangers staring back.
My eldest, forty-year-old Edward, sat with the tension of a man already counting his inheritance before the will was read.
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 Beatrice, wasnt eyeing my possessionsshe was looking straight at me.
I took a sip of water to steady myself.
“The doctors estimate I have about six months.”
Edward leaned forward instantly, his manicured fingers tightening around the linen napkin.
“Mum, lets be practical. No time for sentiment. Your estate, your assetsthey need to be managed properly. We need a clear plan.”
Margaret chimed in, her voice sweet yet insistent, like a market trader selling silk scarves.
“And the house Edward and I thought we should get a valuation. Just for formalitys sake, you understand? To avoid any disputes later.”
They didnt even pretend to be grieving. They went straight to business, to numbers and square footage.
Only Beatrice stayed silent. She stood slowly, walked behind me, and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her palms were warm, trembling slightly.
The next day, Margaret arrived with an estate agent. “Just to get an idea of the market value, 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 in this postcode have dropped.”
Edward called three times that morningnot to ask how I was, but to demand financial reports and the contact details of the corporate solicitors.
“Business is a living organism, Mum. It cant stand still. Every delay is money lost.”
I gave him what he asked foror at least, pretended to. Calmly, methodically.
They scurried around, dividing, planning. So consumed by my inheritance, they forgot one crucial thing: I was still alive.
One evening, the doorbell rang. Beatrice stood there with two containers of homemade food. She didnt ask about the will or valuations.
“I brought you chicken broth and a shepherds pie. You need to eat well.”
She sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand.
“Mum, if you ever need to talk or just want me nearby, just say the word. Ill be here.”
I studied her tired face, her simple, honest words.
A week later, Edward and Margaret arrived togetherwith a solicitor.
“Mum, weve prepared a draft will,” Edward announced. “To make things easier. Weve divided everything fairly.”
Margaret handed me a thick folder.
“Your final wish should be legally flawless. No complications later.”
I opened the documents. Everything was itemised down to the last silver spoon. My house, my shares, my savingsall neatly split between them.
Beatrices name was barely mentionedjust a neglected cottage on the outskirts and an old car.
I looked up. They watched me expectantly, barely containing their impatience. They wanted my signaturemy final act.
But this wasnt the end. It was just the beginning.
“Thank you for taking care of this,” I said evenly. “Ill review it carefully. Give me a few days.”
When the door shut behind them, I opened the safe. Inside was another folderdraft documents my solicitor had prepared a month ago, right after my doctors visit.
Then I called Beatrice.
“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 earmarked for the skip.
“Mum, whats wrong? You look different.”
I handed her a slim folder containing a power of attorneyabsolute, in her name.
“I need you to do something for me. It wont be easy. But you must help me.”
She took the document, her fingers tracing the lines.
“Of course. What do you need?”
“Its a marathon, not a sprint,” I began. “First, youll meet my solicitor. Hell brief you. Hell prepare the bank and brokerage transfersslowly, discreetly.”
She blinked in surprise but stayed silent.
“Your brother and sister think theyre in control. Let them believe it. Give them the illusion.”
She didnt ask why. She didnt ask why her, not Edward. She simply trusted.
The next day, I called Edward.
“Son, Ive been thinking you were right. The business needs managing. But I dont want you distracted from the core operations. Take charge of our old factory in Yorkshire. Audit it, sort it out. Only you can handle it.”
I sent him two hundred miles away to deal with a near-bankrupt site Id planned to shut down anyway. He left, buoyed by his own importance.
For Margaret, I had another task.
“Darling, youre right about the inventory. We need a full cataloguephotographs, descriptions. For insurance, probate. You have such good tastewould you handle it?”
And she did. For weeks, she documented every vase, every painting, certain she was listing her future possessions.
Meanwhile, Beatrice, after her hospital shifts, met lawyers and accountants. She signed papers, opened accounts, transferred funds in small increments. Painfully slow, but untraceable.
For Edward, I “consulted” on a commercial property in the city centre.
“You know this market better than anyone. Find a buyer. Handle the deal.”
He seized the opportunity. Found a buyer, negotiated the saleconvinced the money would go into the company account hed soon inherit.
He didnt know Beatrice had signed a deed of gift a week earlier. The money went straight into her new account.
Two months passed. I weakened visiblythough not from illness, but from years of silent disappointment.
Edward was the first to suspect something. The factory audit stalled, and he returned to London. Our financial adviser called him.
“Edward, your mothers restructuring assets oddly. Are you aware?”
That evening, he stormed in unannounced, face red, eyes flashing.
“Mum, whats going on? Why are you selling off the portfolio?”
I looked at him wearily.
“What money, son? Im paying for treatment in Switzerland. The consultations, proceduresits expensive.”
He didnt believe me.
“There were millions! You couldnt have spent it all on consultations!”
Margaret arrived next. A gallery acquaintance had slipped up, mentioning our “familys Impressionist collection” in a pre-sale catalogue.
“Mum, what have you done?! Youre selling heirlooms for pennies!”
They stood 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, looming over me. “Just tell us where it is.”
Then Beatrice 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 suddenly clear and strong.
“Shes the one in charge now. Unlike you.”
They froze.
“What are you on about?” Edward snapped. “In charge of what?”
“Everything,” I said, stepping forward. “This house. Everything in it. And beyond.”
I turned to Beatrice.
“Sorry I dragged you into this. But I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?!” Margaret shrieked.
“That youd show me exactly who you are,” I replied calmly.
Edwards face paled.
“You you 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 list.”
I picked up their draft will from the table.
“This?” I snapped the pages in half. “Just paper.”
Margaret sobbedfury and helplessness.
“Youve ruined us! Your own children!”
“You ruined yourselves the day you brought an estate agent instead of compassion.”
I looked at Beatrice. She was pale, wide-eyed.
“Its alright, darling. Everythings alright now.”
I opened the front door.
“Now, please leave.”
Edward stepped forward, fists clenched.
“Youll regret this. Well contest it in court! Prove you werent sound of mind!”
“Go ahead,” I shrugged. “Every transaction had a medical certificate affirming my competency. My solicitor made sure of that.”
They left, shooting me hateful glances. When the door closed, I leaned against it.
Beatrice approached.
“Mum why? I never wanted any of this.”
“I know,” I hugged her. “Thats why its all yours now.”
Five years have
