We agreed not to tell our daughter anything so as not to distract her from her exams. Every day, he brought pills prescribed by the doctor. Here, take this, you’ll feel better, he said gently, and my heart ached.
After those pills, I felt drowsy, the weakness grew, and the fog in my mind thickened. I was becoming a shadow, pale, apathetic. About a month into this, he brought up the conversation.
He sat on the bed beside me, took my hand, and said while looking away, I know it’s hard to talk about, but we need to take care of everything for the sake of our daughter so she doesn’t face problems later. I’m talking about the will. I had no strength to argue.
Of course he was right, we had to think about her. He mentioned knowing a notary who could come to the house to save me the trouble. I’ll prepare everything.
You’ll only need to sign, he added softly. A few days later, everything turned upside down. He came home from work earlier than usual, visibly nervous.
He said he had stopped by the doctor to get a new prescription for me. He tossed his leather briefcase onto the hallway chair and went to make tea. At that moment, I was looking for a utility bill.
I remembered he was supposed to bring it. I opened the briefcase, thinking it might be there. The bill wasn’t, but on top lay a thin folder with my name on it.
My heart skipped a beat, surely this was the copy of my diagnosis. My hands reached for it automatically. I opened it and started reading.
These were the results of all the tests I’d taken. Line by line, the fog in my head cleared, replaced by icy terror. Hemoglobin, normal.
ESR, normal. Blood chemistry, perfect. MRI, no abnormalities.
I re-read it again and again. According to these papers, I was completely healthy. At the bottom, a sticky note was attached.
I recognized the doctor’s handwriting. This is the original. As agreed, keep the copy with the altered data.
I sat on the hallway floor, gripping the folder, unable to breathe. It was all a monstrous lie. My husband, this doctor, they had conspired.
The pills were probably some heavy sedatives to make me feel sick and weak. His care, his tears, his concern, it was all an act. A performance for one audience, me.
They weren’t waiting for my death. They were engineering it, step by step, to take my apartment, my store. Tears poured from my eyes, not tears of grief, but rage.
Something died in me in that moment, my love, my trust. But something else was born, cold, ringing resolve. I quickly put the folder back in the briefcase, as if I’d seen nothing.
I wiped my tears and stood up. If they wanted a performance, they would get one. I would play along.
I would become the most obedient, fading woman in the world. I would sign everything they wanted. And then, then, they would both pay for every tear.
Their game had only just begun. From that day on, my life became a one-woman theater. I became a better actress than any screen star, because the stakes in this performance were my life and my future.
Each morning, I struggled to get out of bed, complaining of weakness and dizziness. I forgot simple words, asked the same questions repeatedly, and looked at him with a foggy, confused gaze. When he handed me another dose of pills with a caring smile, I accepted them with gratitude.
Thank you, darling, I whispered. What would I do without you? Of course, I didn’t swallow them. I had learned to hide the tablet under my tongue, then spit it out as soon as he left the room.
But I could see his impatience growing day by day. He already saw himself as the rightful owner of everything I had built. I began to act.
Using the excuse that I wanted to sort through my father’s old documents at the shop one last time, I went there. My loyal employee, a sharp-minded older woman, greeted me with concern. You don’t look well.
He called earlier and asked that you don’t overexert yourself. I gave a bitter smile. I need your help, I said quietly, making sure we were alone.
Just promise me no living soul will hear of this. I didn’t tell her everything, but I asked her to find the most skilled and aggressive criminal lawyer in the city. Not a divorce lawyer, but someone experienced in fraud and criminal law.