Chapter 3
On the bright screen, Paige appeared laughing hysterically while Gwen, pale and visibly trembling, struggled to carry a heavy tray. Then my mother’s clear voice echoed through the room.
“If she faints again, just leave her lying out in the yard,” my mother said coldheartedly on the recording. “She always puts on a dramatic show whenever guests come over.”
The heavy silence that followed inside the living room was far louder than any angry scream.
Paige tried to lunge forward to snatch the phone out of my hand, but one of the police officers quickly stepped in to block her. My mother looked frantically at the lawyer and then at the notary, desperately searching for some legal loophole to escape the situation.
“That recording does not prove that money was originally yours!” my mother shouted defensively. “You sent those funds because you were a good son, and once deposited, that money legally belonged to me!”
I calmly pulled out four full years of international bank transfer receipts, my official payroll slips, text conversations where she explicitly promised to manage my funds to build my house, and messages where she assured me that Gwen was receiving proper care.
Then I placed a small folded paper directly in front of her on the table. It was the original sales receipt from the local shop that had purchased my wife’s hair for one hundred and fifty dollars.
“While you were hoarding over seventy thousand dollars in private investment accounts, Gwen sold her own hair just to pay for a cancer biopsy,” I said with cold clarity. “Are you going to claim that her hair was a gift to you as well?”
My mother looked down toward the floor for a brief second before her face hardened once more.
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“She was always a weak woman,” my mother spat out bitterly. “Besides that, you are my biological son, and your mother should always come first!”
“Being my mother never gave you the legal or moral right to let my wife slowly die,” I responded firmly.
