Because I kept smiling and nodding, Vanessa grew entirely reckless.
Over dinner that night, she drank heavily, pouring herself a third glass of wine. “Your mother always looked down on me,” she sneered. “Now look at her. She’s pathetic.”
“People can recover,” I replied smoothly.
Vanessa snorted. “From advanced dementia? I don’t think so.”
“I meant from whatever caused those deep bruises on her wrists.”
An icy silence immediately blanketed the room.
Vanessa leaned across the table, her eyes narrowing. “No one is going to trust a word that old woman says, Ethan. I’ve spent months making sure everyone knows she lies, falls, screams, and forgets. By tomorrow morning, a licensed doctor is going to put it in writing permanently.”
The hidden recorder caught every single syllable.
I raised my glass to hers. “To tomorrow.”
She clinked her glass against mine. “To the future.”
Upstairs, Mom was waiting by the door. I handed her a freshly laundered dress and a framed photograph of my father.
“Are you ready for this?” I asked.
She squared her shoulders, her posture perfectly straight.
“Your wife wanted a psychiatric evaluation,” Mom said coldly. “Let’s make sure she gets exactly what she asked for.”
Part 3
The next morning, Vanessa wore her finest pearls. She walked out the door looking like she was attending a celebration, completely convinced she was burying Mom’s freedom for good.
