“Mom, pack your things — we’re leaving tomorrow. I already sold your beach house.” She said it like a victory. I stayed quiet… knowing something she never imagined I’d find out

I woke up feeling strange. It wasn’t exactly happiness, but it wasn’t the crushing sadness I’d been carrying for months either. It was something like pure determination. For the first time since Robert’s death, I had a clear, singular purpose. I was going to get back what was mine, but certainly not in the way Angela expected.

The next morning, I dressed with more care than I had in a long time. I put on my wine-coloured dress, the one Robert always said made me look so elegant. I neatly styled my hair and applied a touch of makeup. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman I hadn’t seen in years. I saw a strong woman.

Mr. Peterson’s office was downtown. It was an old, stately building with gleaming marble floors and vast windows. He greeted me with a warm, professional smile. But when I laid the documents out before him, his expression shifted dramatically.

— Mrs. Brooks, this is… This is far more extensive than I ever imagined. Robert was an exceptionally smart man. Look, according to these papers, you are the full owner of…

“I know, Mr. Peterson. I’ve gone over them. What I need to know is what my legal options are.”

Mr. Peterson confirmed that everything was completely in order, the documents were legitimate, and I was the rightful owner of all the properties listed. He also confirmed what I had already suspected: the sale of the beach house was illegal because Angela had absolutely no right to sell it.

— We can recover the house immediately, Mrs. Brooks, and we can also proceed with legal action against your daughter for fraud.

“No, Mr. Peterson. I don’t want to pursue legal action. I want to handle this differently. I need everything to remain a secret for the time being. Can you help me with that?”

He looked at me with open curiosity, but he nodded. — Of course. You are my client. What do you require?

“I need you to discreetly get the beach house back, do whatever is necessary to nullify that fraudulent sale, and I need you to help me gain full, direct control of all my properties, especially the apartment building where my daughter lives.”

— I understand. It will be a process that will take a few weeks to finalize, but it is completely feasible.

“Perfect. And, Mr. Peterson, I need no one to know I am behind any of this, at least not yet.”

When I left his office, I felt as if I had just woken up from a very long dream. I walked through the downtown streets, observing the people, the tall buildings, the life that was carrying on as normal. But for me, everything had changed. I had a plan.

The following weeks were the strangest of my life. Officially, I was a poor widow who had been abandoned by her only child. But in secret, I was a wealthy woman quietly orchestrating the recovery of my vast assets. Mr. Peterson worked with impressive efficiency, calling me every few days with updates on the progress of the legal proceedings.

I decided to remain in my house for the time being. It was mine, after all, although Angela probably expected me to move into a single, tiny room somewhere. Every morning I would wake up, eat breakfast at the same table where Robert and I had shared so many years, and then go for a walk in the neighbourhood. The neighbours would greet me with that familiar mix of pity and curiosity they reserved for newly bereaved widows.

Aurora, my neighbour and friend for decades, approached me one afternoon while I was watering the front garden.

— Antonia, dear, is it truly true that Angela went off to Europe and left you all alone?

“Yes, Aurora. She went with Edward. They have business plans over there.”

— And how are you going to manage, sweetie? We all know Robert didn’t leave much money behind.

If you only knew, I thought. “Don’t worry, Aurora. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

— Do you need anything? I can bring you over some food, help you with the groceries.

“You’re very kind, but I’m doing just fine, really.”

Aurora looked at me with that expression I knew well—the same one I’d received after the funeral: compassion laced with a slight, guilty relief that the tragedy wasn’t hers.

— Well, you know where to find me if you need anything at all.

These conversations were constantly repeated. The butcher, the baker, the lady at the corner shop. Everyone spoke to me using that soft, hushed tone they use for the unfortunate. And I would nod, smile gently, and thank them for their concern. But inside, a mischievous part of me was enjoying the performance. It felt like living a double life.

Mr. Peterson called me one Wednesday morning. — Mrs. Brooks, I have excellent news. I was able to nullify the sale of the beach house. The buyers had no idea the sale was fraudulent, so they got their money back without any hassle. The house is yours again.

“Excellent, Mr. Peterson. And the building where Angela lives?”

— That one is a little more complex. Technically, you’ve always been the owner through the company, but we need to make some administrative adjustments so you have direct control. That should take another two weeks.

“Perfect. Keep me in the loop.”

After hanging up, I sat in the kitchen with my coffee and thought about Angela. She had been in Europe for three weeks, and I hadn’t heard a single word—not a call, not a text, not even a postcard. In her mind, I had ceased to exist the moment she secured the cash she needed. But I knew that was going to change soon.

I decided to visit the beach house. I took the bus to the coast, the same route Robert and I had travelled hundreds of times. The house looked exactly as I remembered it: small, painted cream-coloured, with a porch that looked right out over the ocean. The fraudulent owners had placed a few potted plants on the steps, but other than that, everything was the same.

I sat on the curb across the street and simply stared at it for an hour. I remembered summer afternoons when Angela was small, running on the beach and building grand sandcastles. Robert grilling fish on the barbecue while I made salads in the kitchen. Angela bringing friends, then boyfriends, then Edward—all those happy moments she had callously reduced to a simple commercial transaction.

An older gentleman emerged from the house and saw me sitting there. He approached me with curiosity. — Are you alright, ma’am?

“Yes, thank you, I’m just reminiscing. I knew the former owners.”

— Yes, I knew them very well. What a shame about what happened. They told us the elderly lady was very sick and needed to sell fast. We thought it was a steal, but it turns out the sale wasn’t legal. We had to give the house back. Did you know them personally?

“No, we did everything through intermediaries, but they told us the daughter was handling everything because the mother wasn’t up to it.”

If you only knew how sad it really was, I thought. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t lose your money.”

— Yes, luckily everything worked out well, although now we have to hunt for another house. We really liked this one.

I left there with a heavy heart. It wasn’t just the money that hurt; it was the sheer audacity with which Angela had lied about me. She had fabricated a story about my failing health. She had used my supposed vulnerability to justify her thievery. To her, I wasn’t a person with feelings, but an obstacle that needed to be swept away.

That night, I called Mr. Peterson again.

“Mr. Peterson, I need you to help me with one more thing. I want to get Robert’s truck back, too.”

— That will be more difficult, Mrs. Brooks. The truck was in your name, but your daughter had a power of attorney that allowed her to sell it.

“How is that possible?”

— Apparently, you signed that power of attorney a few months ago, right after your husband’s death. Don’t you recall?

There it was—the moment Angela had started laying the groundwork for all of this. I vaguely remembered signing some documents she had brought me, claiming they were necessary to smooth out the funeral and inheritance arrangements. I had been so fogged by grief that I signed without reading a single word. How utterly naive I had been.

“I understand, Mr. Peterson. Is there any possible way to recover it?”

— We can try, but it will be much more complicated. We would need to prove that you signed that power of attorney under deception or coercion.

“Let’s do it. I want to reclaim everything they took from me.”

Over the next few weeks, I settled into a strange new routine. In the mornings, I was the poor widow everyone pitied. I would go out to buy necessities, exchange pleasantries with the neighbours, and keep up appearances. But in the afternoons, I transformed into a sharp businesswoman. I would pore over Robert’s documents, talk strategy with Mr. Peterson, and meticulously plan my next move.

I learned things about finance I never thought I’d need to know. I discovered that Robert had been far smarter than I gave him credit for. Every one of his investments had been carefully calculated. The building where Angela lived, for example, wasn’t just profitable from rental income; it was in an area that was rapidly appreciating in value.

I also uncovered the fact that Edward, Angela’s husband, was knee-deep in debt. He had taken out huge loans using the apartment they lived in as collateral, unaware that he wasn’t the actual owner. When the banks figured that out, he was going to be in serious hot water.

Mr. Peterson called me one Friday with a significant update. — Mrs. Brooks, we’ve finalized all the paperwork. You now have total, legal control of all your properties. I also managed to get Robert’s truck back. The buyer turned out to be an acquaintance of mine, and when I explained the situation, he agreed to return it in exchange for a small compensation.

“Excellent work, Mr. Peterson. Now I need your help with one final thing. I want you to send a letter to my daughter.”

— What kind of letter?

“An eviction notice.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. — Mrs. Brooks, are you absolutely sure you want to do this? She is your daughter, after all.

“Mr. Peterson, my daughter kicked me out of my own house with a two-minute phone call. She sold my belongings without asking permission. She treated me like dirt. Now, she’s going to learn that actions have consequences.”

— I understand. Do you want me to send it to her in Europe?

“No, I want you to give it to her when she gets back. I have a feeling that will be very soon.”

I wasn’t wrong. That very afternoon, Aurora came rushing over to my house with the latest neighbourhood scoop.

— Antonia, did you hear that Edward is in trouble with the bank? My brother-in-law, who works there, told me they’re investigating some loans he took out using the apartment they live in as collateral, but it turns out the apartment isn’t even his!

“Really?”

— Yes. And apparently, Angela didn’t know a thing about it. They’re saying she’s going to have to come straight back from Europe to sort out this mess. What a complicated situation.

“Yes, and the worst part is, apparently, Edward lied to her about the business in Europe. There was no business. He just wanted to skip town and escape the debts he had here.”

Perfect. Everything was falling into place exactly as I had anticipated. Angela had put her faith in Edward, sacrificed her relationship with me for him, and was now discovering he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

That night, I sat on the porch with a cup of tea, gazing up at the stars. Robert used to say that the stars were the souls of people who had lived full lives, watching over their families from the heavens. If that was true, then he was up there, watching his plan unfold perfectly.

“Thank you, my love,” I whispered to the sky. “Thank you for taking care of me, even after your death.”

The next day, Mr. Peterson called me first thing in the morning. — Mrs. Brooks, I have some news. Your daughter just arrived back in the country. She’s at the airport, alone.

“Alone?”

— Yes, apparently, Edward stayed in Europe. There are rumours they had a major falling out.

“I see. Did you send the letter?”

— I’m sending it today. She should receive it tomorrow.

I hung up the phone and stood there in the kitchen, feeling a knot of nervousness and anticipation. After so many weeks of silent planning, the moment for the first real move had finally arrived. Angela was about to discover that her mother was not the defenseless victim she believed.