At my husbands funeral, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Im still alive. Dont trust the children. I thought it was a cruel joke.
There, beside the freshly turned earth that was about to swallow fortytwo years of my life, the vibration sent a chill through my grieving heart.
Im alive. Im not the one in the coffin.
My world, already shattered, crumbled into dust. My hands trembled so fiercely I could barely form a reply.
Who are you?
A reply arrived, breathless and hushed:
I cant say. Theyre watching me. Dont trust our children.
My eyes fell on Charles and Henry, my own sons, standing by the coffin with a strange, deadened calm. Their tears seemed forced, their embraces as cold as a November gust. Something was terribly wrong. In that instant the life I thought I knew split in two: the life I believed I had and the horrific truth that was only beginning to surface.
For fortytwo years Albert was my refuge. We met in the tiny village of Littleford, two penniless youths with modest dreams. His hands were stained with grease, his smile shy, and I fell for him at once. We built a life in a tworoom cottage with a tin roof that leaked when it rained, yet we were happy. We possessed something money cannot buy: true love.
When our children arrivedfirst Charles, then Henrymy heart seemed ready to burst. Albert was a wonderful father: he taught them to fish, to mend things, and whispered stories at bedtime. We were a closeknit family or so I thought.
As the boys grew, distance crept in. Charles, ambitious and restless, spurned Alberts offer to work in his bikerepair shop.
I dont want to get my hands dirty like you, Father, he snapped, a small but sharp wound to Alberts heart.
Both sons left for the city, made fortunes in property, and gradually the children we raised were replaced by affluent strangers.
Visits grew rare; their sleek cars and polished suits clashed with our modest life. They looked at our homethe very house where they first learned to walkwith a mix of pity and shame. Charless wife, Jasmine, a woman carved from the citys icy glamour, barely concealed her contempt for our world. Sunday family gatherings faded, replaced by conversations about investments and subtle pressure to sell our cottage.
Jasmine and I will need help with expenses when we have children, Charles said at an uncomfortable dinner. If we sell the house, that money could be an advance on the inheritance.
He asked for his inheritance while we were still alive.
Son, Albert said, his voice calm but firm, when your mother and I are gone, everything we own will be yours. While we live, the decisions are ours.
That night Albert looked at me with a worry I had never seen.
Something is wrong, Mabel. It isnt just ambition. Theres a darker thing behind all this. I did not know how true he was.
The accident occurred on a Tuesday morning. The call came from Memorial Hospital.
Your husband has suffered a serious accident. He must be brought in at once.
My neighbour had to drive me; I was trembling too much to hold my own keys. When I arrived, Charles and Henry were already there. I did not even ask how they had gotten there before me.
Mum, Charles said, hugging me with rehearsed strength, Fathers in bad shape. One of the machines exploded in the workshop.
In intensive care, Albert was almost unrecognisable, attached to a tangle of wires, his face swathed in bandages. I took his hand and, for a moment, felt a faint pulse. He was fighting; my warrior was battling to return to me.
The next three days were hell. Charles and Henry seemed more interested in discussing insurance policies with the doctors than comforting their father.
Mum, Charles said, weve looked at Fathers life cover. Its worth £150,000.
Why speak of money while his father clung to life?
On the third day the doctors told us his condition was critical.
It is highly unlikely he will regain consciousness, they said.
My world collapsed.
Charles, however, saw a practical problem.
Mum, Father wouldnt want to live like this. He always said he didnt want to be a burden.
A burden? My husband, my father, a burden?
That night, alone in his room, I felt his fingers move, clutching mine, his lips trying to form words that never came. I called the nurses, but when they arrived they saw nothing.
Involuntary muscle spasms, they said.
I knew he was trying to tell me something. Two days later he was gone.
The funeral arrangements were a blur, organised with a chilling efficiency by my sons. They chose the simplest coffin, the briefest service, as if eager to finish quickly.
Now, standing by his grave, I clutched the phone that held an impossible message.
Dont trust our children.
Later that night, in our silent, empty house, I went to Alberts old wooden desk. I found the insurance policies. The main one had been increased six months earlier, raising the cover from £10,000 to £150,000. Why had Albert done that? He never mentioned it. Beneath it lay something even more unsettling: a workplaceaccident indemnity of £50,000. In total £200,000a tempting fortune for anyone without scruples.
My phone buzzed again.
Check the bank account. See who receives the money.
The next day, at the bank, the managerwho had known us for decadesshowed me the statements. In the last three months thousands of pounds had been withdrawn from our savings.
Your husband came in person, he explained. He said he needed the money to repair the workshop. I think one of the sons accompanied him once or twice. Charles, perhaps.
Charles. But Albert could see perfectly with his glasses.
That afternoon another message arrived:
The insurance was their idea. They convinced Albert he needed more protection for you. It was a trap.
I could no longer deny the evidence: the increased cover, the unauthorised withdrawals, Charless involvement. Murder? My own sons? The thought was a monster I could not bear.
The messages kept guiding me.
Go to Alberts workshop. Look at his desk.
I expected to find devastation after an explosion. Instead the workshop was oddly tidy. Every machine stood in its place, untouched. No sign of an explosion. On his desk lay a note, in his handwriting, dated three days before his death:
Charles insists I need more insurance. He says its for Mabel. Something isnt right.
And then a sealed envelope addressed to mea letter from my husband.
My dear Mabel,
It has begun. If you are reading this, something has happened to me. Charles and Henry are far too interested in our money. Yesterday Charles told me I should worry about my safety, that at my age any accident could be fatal. It sounded like a threat. If anything happens to me, trust no onenot even our children.
Albert sensed his own death. He saw the signs that I, blinded by a mothers love, refused to see. That night Charles visited, feigning concern.
Mum, the insurance money is already being processed. Two hundred thousand pounds.
How do you know the exact amount? I asked, voice dangerously calm.
I helped Father with the paperwork, he lied weakly. I wanted to make sure you were comfortable.
He then launched a rehearsed speech about how they would manage my money, how I should move into a care home. They were not satisfied with their fathers death; they planned to rob me of everything left.
The final piece arrived in another message:
Tomorrow, go to the police station. Ask for the accident report on Albert. There are contradictions.
At the constabulary, Sergeant OConnell, who had known Albert for years, looked at me with puzzlement.
What accident, Mrs. Hayes? We have no report of an explosion at your husbands workshop, he said, pulling a file. Your husband arrived at the hospital unconscious, showing symptoms of methanol poisoning.
Poisoning. Not an accident. Murder.
Why did no one tell me? I whispered.
The immediate family who signed the hospital documentsyour sonsrequested confidentiality.
They had hidden the truth, invented the explosion, arranged everything.
The following days became a terrifying game of chess. They came to my house together, faces masked with false concern, accusing me of paranoia, of hallucinating from grief. They brought cakes and tea, but the mysterious sender had warned me:
Do not eat or drink anything they offer. They also plan to poison you.
Mum, Charles said, voice dripping with feigned compassion, we spoke to a doctor. He thinks youre suffering from senile paranoia. We think it would be better if you moved to a specialist facility.
That was their whole plan, laid bare: declare me incompetent, lock me away, and keep everything.
That night I received the longest message.
Mabel, I am Steven Callahan, a private investigator. Albert hired me three weeks before he died. He was poisoned with methanol in his coffee. I have audio proof of their planning. Tomorrow at three p.m., go to the Corner Café. Sit at the back table. Ill be there.
At the café a kindly man in his fifties approached my table. He was Steven. He opened a folder and played a small recorder. First, Alberts voice, worried, explaining his suspicions. Then my sons cold, clear voices plotting their fathers murder.
The old man is getting suspicious, Charles said. I have the methanol. The symptoms will look like a stroke. Mum wont be a problem. When he dies, the house will be empty and we can do whatever we like.
Another recording followed:
When we have Dads insurance money, well have to get rid of Mum too, Charles whispered. We can make it look like suicide from depression. A widow who cant live without her husband. Itll all be ours.
I trembled uncontrollably. They had not only killed my husband but intended to kill me for money.
Steven produced more evidence: photographs of Charles buying methanol, financial records showing massive debts. They were desperate. That night we went to the police.
Sergeant OConnell listened to the recordings; his face grew darker with each second.
This is terrible, he muttered.
An arrest warrant was issued immediately.
At dawn, police cars swarmed the luxurious homes of my sons. They were arrested, charged with firstdegree murder and conspiracy. Charles denied everything until the recordings were played. He broke down. Henry tried to flee.
The trial was a spectacle. The courtroom brimmed with people. I walked to the witness stand, legs shaking but mind clear.
I raised them with love, I told the jury, looking straight at my sons. I gave everything. I never imagined love would become the motive for my husbands murder.
The recordings were played before the court. A hush fell as the jury heard my children plotting my death. The verdict came swiftly: guilty on all counts. Life imprisonment without parole.
When the judge read the sentence, a great weight lifted from my shoulders. Justice, at last, for Albert.
After the trial I donated the bloodstained insurance money to a foundation for victims of domestic crime.
A week later a letter arrived. It was from Charles.
Mum, I know I dont deserve your forgiveness, but Im sorry. Money and debt blinded us. We destroyed the best family in the world for £200,000 we never even enjoyed. Tomorrow I will end my life in my cell. I cannot live with what weve done.
He was found dead the next day. When Henry learned of his brothers death, he suffered a complete breakdown and was transferred to the prison psychiatric hospital.
My life now is quiet. I turned Alberts workshop into a garden, planting flowers that I take to his grave each Sunday. Steven has become a close friend.
People sometimes ask if I miss my sons. I miss the children they once were, but those children died long before Albert. The people they became were strangers.
Justice did not bring my husband back, but it gave me peace. And on tranquil evenings, sitting on the porch, I swear I feel his presence, proud that I had the strength to do what was right, even if it meant losing my children forever.
