“When will you finally be gone?” the daughter‑in‑law whispered beside my hospital bed, unaware that a tiny recorder hidden beneath my pillow was catching every word.
Her breath was warm, scented with cheap instant coffee. She assumed I was unconscious—just a body full of medicine.
But I was awake, lying under the thin hospital blanket, every nerve in my frame taut like a violin string.
Under my palm, out of sight, a small cold rectangle lay. I had pressed the record button an hour earlier, when she entered the room with my son.
“Ian, she’s like a vegetable now,” Sheila’s voice rose, clearly moving toward the window. “The doctor says there’s no hope. What are we waiting for?”
I heard my only son exhale heavily.
“Ian, that’s… wrong. She’s my mother,” I whispered into the silence.
“She’s my wife!” she snapped back. “And I want a proper flat, not this cramped storeroom. Your mother’s had her turn—seventy years. Enough.”
I stayed still, breathing evenly, mimicking deep sleep. No tears fell; inside me everything had turned to ash, a cold, crystal‑clear emptiness.
“The estate agent says prices are good now,” Sheila continued in a business tone. “A two‑bed in the centre, newly refurbished… We could be rich. Buy a house in the country, a new car. Ian, wake up! This is our chance!”
He stayed silent. His silence was louder than her words, a consent wrapped in feigned weakness.
“Winter‑grown ruby garlic! European variety. Discount,” a shop flyer fluttered in the stale air.
“And her things…” Sheila went on. “We’ll toss half of them. They’re junk—sets, books… Only antiques, if we find any. I’ll call an appraiser.”
I smiled inwardly. An appraiser. She had no idea I had already arranged one a week before I fell ill.
All the valuable items had long been stored safely elsewhere, along with the documents.
“Fine,” Ian finally muttered. “Do what you will. It’s hard for me to speak about it.”
“Don’t bother speaking, love,” she cooed. “I’ll do it all myself. You won’t have to get your hands dirty.”
She moved to the bedside. I felt her stare, cold and evaluating, as if I were an obstacle about to disappear.
I barely clutched the smooth recorder. It was only the beginning. They didn’t yet know what awaited them.
They tried to erase me from the ledger of life. The old guard never yields; it was marching toward its final assault.
A week passed—dripping IVs, bland mush, my silent theatre. Sheila and Ian visited daily.
My son would sit on the chair by the door, staring at his phone as if it could shield him from reality. He could not bear the sight of my immobile form, nor his own betrayal.
Sheila, on the other hand, seemed at home in the ward, chatting loudly with friends on the phone about the future house. “Three bedrooms, a big sitting room, and a garden—imagine the landscaping! Mother‑in‑law? She’s in the hospital, not doing well. She won’t survive.”
Every word she uttered was recorded, my collection swelling.
Today she crossed a line. She set up a laptop on my bedside table and, perched there, began scrolling through pictures of cottages for Ian. “Look at this one! And that fireplace! Ian, are you even listening?”
“I’m listening,” he replied hoarsely, eyes glued to the floor. “It’s strange… here, next to her…”
“Where else?” Sheila snapped. “No time to wait. I’ve already called our estate agent; she’ll be bringing the first buyers tomorrow. We must stage the flat perfectly.”
She turned to me, her gaze devoid of any humanity, only cold calculation. “About the belongings—yesterday I started emptying the wardrobes. So much rubbish. Your dresses are outdated… I’ve bagged everything for charity.”
My dresses—the ones I wore when I defended my doctoral thesis, the one in which Ian’s father proposed to me—each piece a fragment of memory. She was not merely discarding fabric; she was erasing my life.
Ian flinched. “Why are you touching them? Maybe she wanted—”
“What ‘wanted’?” Sheila cut in. “She wants nothing now. Ian, stop being a child. We’re building our future.”
She rose, sauntered to my nightstand and opened a drawer without ceremony. Her fingers fished through wet tissues and packets of tablets. “No documents here? Passport? Anything for the deal?”
The psychological pressure transformed into direct action. She was now stealing from me while I still lived.
At that moment a nurse popped his head in. “Mrs. Parker, it’s time for your injection.”
Sheila’s face softened instantly, a tender, concerned expression blooming. “Of course, of course. Ian, let’s go, we won’t disturb the procedure. Mum, we’ll be back tomorrow,” she cooed, smoothing my hand with a touch that felt like a crawling caterpillar.
When they left, I kept my eyes closed until the nurse’s footsteps faded down the corridor. Then, with great effort, I turned my head. Muscles ached, but I managed.
I stopped the recorder, saved the file as “seven”, and felt beneath my pillow the second, button‑cell phone my old friend and solicitor had slipped to me.
I dialed the number I knew by heart.
“Hello?” a calm, businesslike voice answered.
“Boris Semenov, it’s me,” my voice rasped, strange in the quiet. “Activate the plan. The time is now.”
The next day, precisely at three o’clock, the doorbell rang in my flat. Sheila opened it with her most charming smile.
A respectable couple stood there with a real‑estate agent. “Please come in! Sorry for the mess, we’re just getting ready to move,” she chirped. “You understand—little chaos before a relocation.”
She led the visitors through the hallway, extolling “splendid views from the windows” and “‑pleasant neighbours‑”.
Ian pressed himself against the wall, trying to be as invisible as possible, his face as grey as ash. “The flat belongs to my mother‑in‑law,” Sheila announced with a hint of melancholy. “Unfortunately her health is critical, the doctors give us little hope.”
We decided she would be better cared for in a specialist facility, under supervision. These walls held too many memories for her.
She paused dramatically, as if staging a performance, wanting the buyers to feel the full weight of the situation.
Then the door opened again, silently, without a ring. An electric wheelchair glided in. I was seated inside.
Not in a hospital gown, but in a dark navy silk robe, hair neatly pinned, lips barely tinted. My gaze was calm, cold.
Behind me stood Boris Semenov—my solicitor—tall, silver‑haired, impeccably dressed. He closed the door with a soft click.
Sheila froze, her smile erased as if by an eraser.
Ian’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit. The buyers and the agent exchanged bewildered looks between Sheila and me.
“Good afternoon,” my voice, low yet clear, cut through the silence. “You’ve got the wrong address. This flat isn’t for sale.”
I turned to the bewildered couple. “Sorry for the inconvenience. My daughter‑in‑law must have overreacted to my condition and… exaggerated.”
Sheila seemed to snap awake. “Mum? How are you here? You shouldn’t be…”
“I can do whatever I see fit, dear,” I replied, my stare chilling the air. “Especially when strangers run my house without permission.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and hit play. A familiar hiss and a quiet voice filled the room: “When will you finally be gone?”
Sheila’s face turned the colour of a hospital sheet. She opened her mouth but no sound escaped. Ian clutched his face, tears streaming.
“My collection of recordings is extensive, Sheila,” I said evenly. “Your dreams, the sold‑off items, the appraiser. Some authorities will find it… interesting.”
“Especially for a fraud case,” Boris added, stepping forward with a stack of papers.
“Mrs. Parker signed a general power of attorney in my name this morning,” he declared dryly. “And a police report. I’ve also prepared an eviction notice for moral damage and threat to life. You have 24 hours to vacuous your belongings and leave.”
He laid the documents on the table; they rustled with a quiet finality.
It was the end. A line, a point beyond which nothing could return. Yet for the first time in weeks I felt no pain, no resentment—only a cold, unbreakable strength of someone who had nothing left to lose and everything to claim.
The agent and the buyers vanished in a flurry of apologies. In the lounge only the four of us remained, the silence thick as dust in an old attic.
Sheila was the first to recover, her shock turning to fury. “You have no right!” she shrieked, jabbing a finger at me. “This is Ian’s flat! He’s listed here! He’s the heir!”
“Former heir,” Boris corrected, scanning the documents. “According to the new will, drafted and witnessed yesterday, all of Annabel Parker’s estate is bequeathed to a charitable fund for young researchers. Your husband, unfortunately, is not included.”
That was my final shot. I watched the last spark of hope die in her eyes. She glared at Ian with a hatred that made it seem he alone bore all blame.
Ian, my son, finally stepped away from the wall. He looked at me, his face wet with tears, pathetic. “Mum… I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. She… she forced me.”
I stared at him, at the forty‑year‑old man who had hidden behind his mother’s back out of his own choice.
Love, that boundless maternal love, had died in the ward under his wife’s whisper. All that remained was bitter disappointment.
“No one forced you to be silent, Ian,” I replied, my voice even, almost indifferent. “You made your choice. Live with it.”
“Where will we go?” Sheila interjected, voice trembling with fear and rage. “Out on the street?”
“You had a rented flat before you decided my place would be cleared,” I reminded her. “You can go back there, or anywhere else. It’s no longer my concern.”
Sheila lunged at the boxes, shoving them into a bag, muttering curses. Ian stood in the centre of the room, lost.
He glanced at me again. “Mum, please. I understand now. I’ll change.”
“It’s never too late to change,” I said. “But not here, not with me. My door is closed to you forever.”
He bowed his head, realizing this was the final curtain, not a performance or punishment, but a decisive end.
An hour later they left. I heard the door shut behind them. Boris approached.
“Mrs. Parker, are you sure about the fund? We could reverse everything,” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. Let it be. I want what remains of my life to serve a purpose, not fuel further feuds.”
He nodded and left. I was alone in my flat, running my hand over the armrest of the chair, the spines of books. Nothing had changed here.
I had changed. I was no longer just a mother who forgave everything. I had become the one who set the limits of my own universe.
And in this new universe there was no room for anyone who ever whispered, “When will you finally be gone?”
