In the photos, Victor looked like he was actively dying, far worse than his actual condition, though that was serious enough. «Now you,» Victor directed. «You need to look exhausted, overwhelmed.» I removed my makeup, tousled my hair, and put on an oversized sweater that made me appear smaller, more vulnerable. Victor took several photos of me seemingly asleep in the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, and others of me preparing medications with a worried expression.
«Perfect,» he said, reviewing the images. «Who’s our target for these?»
«Brady’s sister, Melissa,» I replied. «According to your phone, she’s the only one who’s texted to check on you since they left.» I crafted a carefully worded message to accompany the photos. Victor had a difficult night. Fever spiked to 102. Managing pain as best I can. Will keep you updated. It was direct and clinical but with an undertone of concern that would trigger either guilt or at least interest.
Melissa replied within minutes. Oh no. Poor Uncle Victor. Keep me posted.
«Hook set,» Victor murmured when I showed him the response.
Next came my most difficult performance yet. I called Brady’s phone, knowing he wouldn’t answer but that his voicemail would record my message. Victor activated the recording app on his phone to preserve my side of the conversation. «Brady, it’s me again,» I said, injecting controlled panic into my voice. «Victor’s condition is deteriorating faster than expected. The hospice nurse is concerned about his breathing. Please call me back as soon as you can.» I paused, then added with just the right tremor, «I really need your support right now.»
I made similar calls every few hours, each message increasingly urgent, each carefully recorded. Between calls, I created a detailed medical log with fictional but realistic episodes: temperature spikes, breakthrough pain, respiratory difficulties. I backdated some entries to create a consistent narrative of decline beginning before they even left on their cruise.
«You should have been an actress,» Victor commented as I showed him the log.
«I prefer to think of it as creative nonfiction,» I replied with a grim smile. «Every good story needs documentation.»
Around four that afternoon, our planning was interrupted by a knock at the door. I opened it to find an elderly woman holding a covered casserole dish. «I’m Edith Peterson from next door,» she announced. «I thought you might need some dinner. Looking after Victor is a full-time job, I imagine.»
I invited her in, grateful for both the food and the unexpected opportunity she presented. Over coffee, Mrs. Peterson revealed herself as a potential goldmine of information and support. «I’ve been watching that family for years,» she confided, lowering her voice as though Victor might overhear from his bedroom, though he was actually resting. «The way they treat that poor man. Your husband is no better than his mother, if you don’t mind my saying so.»
«I don’t mind at all,» I assured her. «I’m discovering exactly what kind of family I married into.»
Mrs. Peterson patted my hand. «Victor was so good to that boy, you know. Paid for his college, bought him his first car. And how does Brady repay him? By taking off on vacation while his stepfather is dying.»
I let my genuine anger and hurt show. «They left me a note. Just a note telling me to take care of him.»
«Shameful,» Mrs. Peterson declared. «Absolutely shameful. You know, the whole neighborhood has noticed. Last month, when Victor fell in the yard, it was my Harold who helped him up. Brady was inside watching football and ignored our knocks completely.» By the time she left, Mrs. Peterson had promised to spread the word among the neighbors that Victor needed support and visitors while his family was selfishly gallivanting in the Caribbean. I carefully documented her statements and the date of her visit.
Over the next two days, five more neighbors visited, each with their own stories of witnessing Brady’s neglect of Victor. Each visit strengthened our case and provided additional witnesses to both Victor’s apparent decline and the family’s absence during what they believed to be his final days.
On Saturday morning, Patricia returned with the final documents for the asset transfers. We drove Victor to the local bank where he’d been a customer for over thirty years. The manager, Mr. Collins, greeted him warmly.
«Victor. Good to see you out and about. How are you feeling?»
«Getting my affairs in order, Richard,» Victor replied, his voice deliberately weaker than usual. «Memory’s still sharp, even if the body’s failing.»
In the privacy of the manager’s office, Victor officially transferred control of his hidden assets to a series of trusts that would benefit me and several eldercare charities. Mr. Collins watched with sympathy as Victor’s shaking hand signed each document. «Your stepson was in last week,» the manager mentioned casually as we completed the paperwork. «Asking about your accounts. I reminded him that without proper authorization…»
Victor smiled thinly. «Always planning ahead, that boy.»
«I remember when he came in to cash that check for his graduation gift,» Mr. Collins continued. «Didn’t even thank you, just complained it wasn’t enough for the car he wanted.» Another piece of evidence, another witness to Brady’s character.
That evening, as we were reviewing our progress, Victor’s phone rang with a video call from Melissa. We quickly put our plan into action, arranging Victor in bed surrounded by medical equipment, an oxygen cannula in his nostrils. I mussed my hair and pinched my cheeks to bring a stressed flush to my face.
When I answered the call, the camera showed me first, looking exhausted.
«Oh, Jade,» Melissa gasped. «You look terrible. Is everything okay?»
«Managing,» I said simply, turning the phone toward Victor, who gave an Oscar-worthy performance of semi-consciousness, his breathing deliberately labored.
«Uncle Victor?» Melissa called. «It’s Melissa. Can you hear me?»
Victor’s eyes fluttered weakly. «Melissa,» he whispered. «Is that you, sweetheart?»
The concern in Melissa’s voice sounded genuine, but what came next revealed her true priorities. «Should we come home early? Is he… is he going to make it until Monday?»
I turned the camera back to my face. «It’s hard to say. The hospice nurse thinks his systems are shutting down. If you want to say goodbye…»
«Let me talk to Brady and Mom,» she said quickly. «The thing is, these tickets were non-refundable, and Mom’s been so stressed lately.»
I nodded understandingly while fighting back genuine disgust. «Of course. It’s just that Victor keeps asking for Brady in his more lucid moments.»
«I’ll tell him to call,» Melissa promised, «as soon as they get back from their shore excursion.»
After ending the call, Victor sat up and removed the oxygen cannula. «Did you record that?»
I held up my other phone, which had captured the entire conversation. «Every word.»
Victor’s smile was satisfied but tinged with genuine sadness. «My family, weighing their cruise tickets against saying goodbye to me. I knew it would happen exactly like this.»
I sat on the edge of his bed, suddenly emotional. «I’m sorry, Victor.»
He shook his head. «Don’t be. Their true colors needed to be revealed.» He reached for my hand. «You know what the strangest part is? These past few days with you, with someone who actually cares, have been better than months with them.» We sat in companionable silence, contemplating what we had set in motion and the final steps yet to come. Our counterattack was fully underway; the trap was nearly set. Now we just needed to spring it at precisely the right moment.
Sunday morning dawned with a subtle shift in the atmosphere. As I brought Victor his morning tea, I noticed his hands trembling more than usual and a bluish tint around his lips that hadn’t been there before. «You don’t have to pretend for me,» I said softly, helping him sit up. «You’re really not feeling well today, are you?»
Victor’s smile was thin but genuine. «Ironic, isn’t it? After all our play-acting, the real thing sneaks up on us.»
I called the hospice nurse who had been making weekly visits before the family left. She promised to come by that afternoon but advised me on managing his comfort in the meantime. This wasn’t acting anymore. Victor was actively declining, and a rush of protectiveness swept over me. Our revenge scheme suddenly felt secondary to ensuring his comfort and dignity.
«What would you like for breakfast?» I asked, trying to maintain normalcy.
«Peaches,» he said, surprising me. «Fresh peaches with cream. My late wife, Martha, used to prepare them every Sunday morning.»
The request sent me to three different grocery stores before I found decent peaches in November. When I returned and prepared them as he described, sliced into perfect crescents with a dollop of whipped cream, Victor’s eyes misted over at the first bite. «Just like she used to make,» he whispered. «No one’s bothered to remember such things about me in years.»
Throughout the day, I found myself doing things not for our plan but simply for Victor’s comfort: adjusting his pillows, reading aloud from his dog-eared copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep, and playing the classical music he mentioned enjoying. The genuine care that had developed between us over our short time together surprised me with its intensity.
«You know,» Victor said during a lucid moment that afternoon, «I haven’t been treated with such kindness since Martha died twelve years ago. It’s strange how a stranger has shown me more compassion than my own family.»
The hospice nurse, Diane, arrived around three. After examining Victor, she took me aside in the hallway. «His organs are shutting down,» she said gently. «It’s happening faster than we anticipated. I’d say he has hours, maybe a day at most.»
Though I’d known this was coming, the news hit me harder than expected. «Should I call the family?» I asked, suddenly uncertain about our elaborate plan.
Diane shook her head. «At this point, it should be about his comfort, not theirs. If they’ve chosen not to be here…» She left the rest unsaid.
After she left, I sat beside Victor, who had overheard everything despite our hushed voices. «Don’t call them,» he said firmly. «They made their choice. But we do need to finalize some matters.» He reached for my hand. «Call Patricia. Tell her it’s time for the final steps.»
Patricia arrived within the hour, bringing a notary named Thomas with her. Victor was remarkably alert as they entered, as if summoning his remaining strength for this last important task.
«Are you sure you’re up to this?» Patricia asked, concerned by his appearance.
«More certain than ever,» Victor replied. «Death has a way of clarifying priorities.»
They finalized the last paperwork, documents that officially transferred control of his assets to me as trustee, with specifications for charitable donations to elder abuse prevention organizations. The new will explicitly mentioned Brady’s abandonment as the reason for his disinheritance.
«Now for the letter,» Victor said after signing the last document. Patricia set up her tablet to record as Victor dictated a message to be read to the family after his death. What emerged wasn’t the angry condemnation I might have expected, but something far more powerful: an expression of profound disappointment and the deep pain of being treated as a burden rather than a father.
«To my family,» he began, his voice gaining strength with each word. «By the time you read this, I will be gone. Not that my presence or absence seemed to matter much to you in recent years.» He detailed specific instances of neglect without accusation, simply stating facts: holidays spent alone while they vacationed, medical appointments canceled for convenience, overheard comments about waiting for the old man to die. «I don’t write this from anger,» he continued, «but from a place of clarity that comes when one faces the end. The greatest pain in life is not illness or even death, but the realization that those you loved saw you only as an obligation, a task to be managed, an inconvenience to be tolerated.»
By the time he finished, even Thomas the notary, a professional who must have witnessed countless wills and final messages, was discreetly wiping his eyes. Patricia, despite her usual stoic demeanor, reached for Victor’s hand. «We’ll make sure they hear every word,» she promised.
After they left, Victor asked for his old video camera. «They might question my mental capacity,» he explained. «I want to record my testimony while I’m clearly lucid.»
I set up the camera, and Victor delivered a twenty-minute statement directly to the lens. He was remarkably composed, methodically describing years of gradual neglect and his decision to leave his estate to me. «Jade showed me more dignity in four days than my family did in four years,» he stated clearly. «She is the only one who earned the right to benefit from what I spent a lifetime building.» He described specific incidents: Brady’s dismissive comments at doctor’s appointments, meals left just out of reach, medications forgotten during weekend trips. The recording was devastating in its calm delivery and damning details.
By evening, Victor’s energy was fading. I helped him to the living room at his request, settling him in his favorite chair by the window. «There’s a bottle of port in my study,» he said, «behind the economics textbooks. Martha and I were saving it for our 50th anniversary.»
I found the dusty bottle where he described and poured a small amount into two crystal glasses I discovered in a neglected cabinet.
«To justice,» Victor said, raising his glass with effort.
«To dignity,» I added. We sat together as darkness fell, Victor occasionally dozing while I read to him from his favorite book. He spoke intermittently about Martha, about his early career, about trips they had planned but never taken. Not once did he mention Brady or his mother.
Around midnight, I noticed his breathing had changed. I set my book aside and simply held his hand. There was no drama, no last-minute revelations or deathbed confessions. Victor simply slipped away, his hand growing cool in mine as his breathing gradually stopped.
