I was hospitalized for three weeks, and during that time my son transferred my house to his in-laws. When I returned, he told me, “It’s not yours anymore.” I only said, “Enjoy it.” But a week later, what I had arranged left them all sh0cked.
The air in my hospital room tasted of antiseptic and anxiety. In three hours, I would be wheeled into surgery for a hip replacement. At seventy-two, the fear of the scalpel was louder than the ache in my bones.
The door swung open, and my son, Steven, strode in, his smile too bright for the sterile room. His wife, Jessica, hovered behind him, clutching a thick stack of documents.
“Mom,” Steven said, his voice overly cheerful. “We came to wish you luck.”
“And to get a few last papers signed,” Jessica chimed in, placing the stack on my bedside table. “Just a formality. So the hospital can talk to Steven while you’re… you know, sleepy.”
I glanced at the documents. It was far thicker than I expected for a simple medical directive. A flicker of my old self—the retired banking compliance officer—stirred.
“So many pages,” I said, my voice raspy and dry.
“It’s just legal boilerplate, Mom,” Steven said quickly. “You know lawyers. They have to cover everything.” He flipped to a page marked with a yellow X. “Here, you just need to sign this one.”
“Wait,” I said, reaching for my glasses. “Let me read it.”
A flash of annoyance crossed Steven’s face. “Mom, you don’t need to. It just says I can make medical decisions for you. It’s just a precaution.”
“And it covers financial matters, too,” Jessica added, her voice syrupy sweet. “So Steven can pay your bills while you recover. You don’t want to have to worry about that, do you?”
Financial matters? The alarm bell in my head rang, but it was muffled by the terror of the impending surgery. I trusted him. He was my only son.
Jessica’s manicured finger tapped the signature line. “Right here, Martha.”
My hand trembled as I took the pen. My signature was a weak, shaky version of itself—the signature of a frightened woman, not the one who used to make executives tremble.
The moment I was done, Steven snatched the folder. The relief on his face was almost palpable. He kissed my forehead, a Judas kiss. “Get some rest, Mom. Everything will be fine.”
As they left, leaving me alone with the steady beep of the machines, a cold dread washed over me. I had just armed my own executioner.
Three weeks later, when I returned home, Steven stood in the doorway.
“Things have changed,” he said, his voice ice. “The house isn’t yours anymore.”
But they had forgotten one thing. They thought they had tricked a frail old woman. They forgot that I spent forty years smelling fraud.