The day of my husband’s funeral, Ernest, was the quietest day of my life. My phone vibrated next to the freshly dug ground that was about to consume forty-two years of my existence. A message from an unknown number that sent a cold chill through my grieving soul.
I’m still here. That’s not me in the casket.
My world, which was already broken, turned to dust. My hands shook so much that I could hardly type a response. Who are you?
The answer stole my breath away. I don’t know. They are looking. Don’t believe our sons.
My eyes went to Charles and Henry, my own boys, who were standing by the coffin with looks of such strange, serene serenity. Their hugs were as chilly as the air in November, and their tears seemed fake. Something was very wrong. At that point, the universe split in two: the life I thought I had and the horrible truth that was just starting to come out.
Ernest had been my safe place for forty-two years. Two underprivileged adolescents with big hopes met in the small town of Spring Creek. I fell in love with him right away when I saw his grease-stained hands and bashful smile. We were pleased living in a two-bedroom house with a tin roof that leaked when it rained. We had something that money couldn’t buy: true love.
I
A distance started to grow between them as they got older. Charles, who was ambitious and restless, turned down Ernest’s offer to work at his bike repair shop. “I don’t want to get my hands dirty like you, Dad,” he remarked, and those words hurt my husband’s heart. They both moved to the city, made a lot of money in real estate, and over time, the guys we reared were replaced by rich strangers.
Visits
Charles mentioned during an awkward dinner, “Jasmine and I will need help with expenses when we have kids.” “That money could be an early inheritance if you sell the house.” Games for the whole family
He wanted our inheritance while we were still living. Ernest had replied in a calm but stern voice, “Son, when your mother and I are gone, everything we have will be yours.” But while we’re alive, the choices we make are ours.
That night, Ernest glanced at me with an expression of dread that I’d never seen before. “Margot, something’s wrong. This isn’t just ambition. “There’s something darker behind all this.” I had no idea how right he was.
On a Tuesday morning, the “accident” took place. Memorial Hospital made the call. Your husband got into a bad accident. You have to arrive right now. I couldn’t grasp the keys because I was shaking too much, so my neighbor had to drive me.
Charles and Henry were already there when I got there. I didn’t ask how they knew before me because I was so desperate. “Mom,” Charles whispered, hugging me tightly like he had done so before, “Dad is in bad shape.” A machine in the shop blew up.
Ernest was barely recognizable in the ICU. He was hooked up to a dozen machines and had bandages all over his face. I held his hand. I felt a little squeeze for a second. He was in a fight. My warrior was fighting to get back to me.
The next three days were a nightmare. Charles and Henry were more interested in talking to doctors about insurance than in making their dad feel better. Charles remarked, “Mom, we looked over Dad’s insurance. He has $150,000 in life insurance coverage. Why was he talking about money when Ernest was fighting for his life?
On the third day, the doctors told us that he was in bad shape. They replied, “It’s very unlikely that he will ever regain consciousness.” My life fell apart. Charles, on the other hand, recognized a real problem. “Mom, Dad wouldn’t want to live like this.” He always maintained he didn’t want to be a burden.
A burden? My husband, their father, is a burden? That night, alone in his room, I felt his fingers move again, squeezing mine, as his lips tried to make words that wouldn’t come. I contacted the nurses, but he was still there when they got there. They said, “Involuntary muscle spasms.” But I knew. He had tried to say something to me. He left two days later.
My sons made the funeral plans a blur, but they did it with a chilling efficiency. It was clear that they wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible because they picked the simplest casket and the shortest service. And now, as I stand at his tomb, I hold the phone that has an unbelievable message. Don’t believe our sons.
That night, in our quiet, empty house, I went to Ernest’s old wooden desk. I found the policies for insurance. Just six months before, the main life policy had been changed, and the coverage went from $10,000 to $150,000. Why did Ernest do that? He had never said anything about it. Then I found something much more disturbing: a workers’ compensation policy I didn’t know about that pays $50,000 in the event of accidental death on the job. $200,000 in all. A fortune that is too good to pass up for someone without scruples.
My phone vibrated again. Look at the bank account. Find out who has been moving money.
The next day at the bank, the manager, who had known us for a long time, presented me the statements. In the last three months, we had taken out thousands of dollars from our savings. She said, “Your husband came in person.”” He said he needed it to fix the store. “I think one of your sons was with him once or twice. I think it’s Charles.
Charles. But Ernest’s glasses let him see properly. A second communication came in the afternoon. It was their idea to get insurance. They made Ernest believe he needed to protect you more. It was a snare.
I could no longer deny the proof. The higher insurance costs, the unauthorized withdrawals, and Charles’s presence. But murder? My own sons? The thought was a monster I wasn’t ready to face yet.
The texts kept helping me. Visit Ernest’s store. Check out his workstation.
I thought I would see a scene of destruction from an explosion. The store, on the other hand, was really clean. Everything was in its place and working. There was no explosion. I found a note in his handwriting on his desk that was dated three days before he died. Charles says I need extra insurance. He says it’s for Margot. But something doesn’t seem right. And then there was an envelope with my name on it. A letter from my husband.
It started, my lovely Margot. If you are reading this, it means that something has happened to me. Charles and Henry care too much about our money. Charles informed me yesterday that I should be more worried about my safety because at my age, any accident may be deadly. It sounded like a menace. If something happens to me, don’t trust anyone blindly. Not even our sons.
Ernest had a feeling that he was about to die. He had seen the signs that I, blinded by a mother’s love, had missed. Charles came to see us that night, seeming to be worried.
“Mom, the money from the insurance. It’s already in the works.” Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“How do you know the exact amount?” I asked, and my voice was dangerously calm.
“Well, I helped Dad with the paperwork,” he said with a smile. “He wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”
Then he started giving a rehearsed speech about how they could “manage” my money and why I should relocate to a retirement community. They weren’t only sad about their father’s death; they were going to take whatever I had left.
Another text gave me the last piece of the puzzle. Visit the police station tomorrow. Get the report on the accident that happened to Ernest. There are things that don’t make sense.
Sergeant O’Connell, who had known Ernest for years, stared at me with confusion at the station. “What happened, Mrs. Hayes? There has been no news of an explosion at your husband’s store. He took out a file. “Your husband came to the hospital unconscious and showing signs of poisoning.” Methanol.
Poisoning. It wasn’t an accident. It was a killing. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I said it quietly.
“The people who signed the hospital papers—your sons—asked that the information be kept secret.”
They had kept the truth from them. They had made the explosion happen. They had planned everything. The next few days were like a scary game of chess. They arrived at my house jointly, their expressions masks of faux concern. They said I was paranoid and hallucinating because I was sad. They brought me coffee and cakes, but the mysterious messenger had warned me not to eat or drink anything they offered me. They were also going to kill me.
“Mom,” Charles continued, his voice dripping with fake pity, “we’ve talked to a doctor. He thinks you have senile paranoia. We think it’s better for you to go to a center that offers expert care.
It was their whole plan, spelled out. You can call me incompetent, jail me up, and steal everything.
That night, I got the longest message ever. This is Steve Callahan, a private investigator, Margot. Three weeks before he died, Ernest employed me. They put methanol in his coffee to kill him. I have audio proof that they were making plans. Go to the Corner Cafe tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. Please sit at the rear table. I will be there.
A man in his fifties with kind eyes came up to my table at the cafe. Steve was it. He opened a drawer and played a voice recorder that was little. First, Ernest’s voice, anxious, told him what he thought. Then I heard my sons’ cool, clear voices talking about how to kill their father.
Charles’s voice remarked, “The old man is starting to get suspicious.” ” I already have the methanol. The signs are similar to those of a stroke. Mom won’t be a problem. She’ll be so sad after he’s gone that we can do whatever we want with her.
Then, another recording. Charles added, “We need to get rid of Mom too once we have Dad’s insurance money.” “We can make it look like a suicide because of depression.” A widow who can’t go on without her husband. We would own everything.
I couldn’t stop shaking. My sons not only killed their father, but they also planned to kill me. For the money. Steve had more: pictures of Charles buying the methanol and their financial records, which showed that they owed a lot of money. They were in a lot of trouble. We went to the police that night.
As Sergeant O’Connell listened to the recordings, his face grew more and more dismal. He said, “This is horrible.” Immediately, arrest warrants were sent out.
Police cars filled my sons’ expensive homes at dawn. They were taken into custody and charged with first-degree murder and conspiracy. Charles denied everything until the recordings were played, and then he fell. Henry tried to run.
The trial was a big deal. There were a lot of people in the courtroom. My legs were shaking, but my mind was clear as I stepped to the witness stand.
“I raised them with love,” I told the jury, looking right at my sons. “I gave up everything. I never thought that love would lead to their father’s death.
The court heard the recordings. A murmur of terror went through the room as the jury heard my sons talking about killing me. The decision was made quickly. Guilty on all counts. Life in jail.
When I heard the judge’s sentence, it seemed like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Justice. At last, Ernest got what he deserved.
I sent the blood-stained insurance money to a foundation that helps victims of family crimes after the trial. I got a letter a week later. Charles sent it.
Hey Mom, I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m sorry. The money and the debts made us blind. For $200,000, we killed the most loving family in the world, and we never even got to enjoy it. I shall die in my jail tomorrow. I can’t handle what we did.
The next day, they found him. Henry had a full breakdown when he found out that his brother had died. He was sent to the prison psychiatric institution.
My life is quiet today. I turned Ernest’s store into a garden, and every Sunday I take flowers from there to his tomb. Steve has become a close friend. People ask me if I miss my sons occasionally. I miss the kids they were, but those kids died long before Ernest did. The men they turned into were not the same. Justice didn’t bring my husband back, but it did give me peace. And on quiet nights, when I sit on the porch, I swear I can feel him there, proud that I was strong enough to do the right thing, even if it meant losing my sons forever.
