I came home for Thanksgiving. The house was empty, except for my husband’s stepfather in a rocking chair. A note said, «Gone on a cruise with my ex. You’ll stay home and take care of stepdad; he needs you.» The stepfather opened one eye and said, «Shall we begin?» I nodded. Four days later, my husband was begging...
The note trembled in my fingers as the blood drained from my face. Gone on a Caribbean cruise with Hannah. Mom decided to come too since she needed a break. You’ll stay home and take care of Victor, he needs you. Back Monday. Brady.
I read it twice, certain there must be some mistake. The paper fluttered to the kitchen counter as my hand went numb.
«He’s not coming back until Monday, is he?» The raspy voice behind me made me jump.
I turned to see Victor watching me from the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane but with eyes far too alert for the decrepit old man Brady had described. «No,» I managed, my voice barely audible. «No one is.»
«They’ve all gone on a cruise.» Victor nodded slowly, as if he’d expected this exact scenario. «Left you with the dirty work, didn’t they? Classic Brady move.»
I had arrived at the Mitchell family home just thirty minutes earlier, my car packed with gifts and ingredients for Thanksgiving dinner. The silent house should have been my first clue: no delicious aromas of roasting turkey, no football game blaring from the living room television, no cheerful greetings. Instead, I found only an unheated house and Brady’s stepfather sitting alone in a rocking chair, looking at me with those uncomfortably perceptive blue eyes.
«I don’t understand,» I said, sinking into a kitchen chair. «We’ve been planning this Thanksgiving dinner for months. His mother was supposed to host. Everyone was coming.» I pulled out my phone and tried Brady’s number again. It went straight to voicemail, just like the previous three attempts.
Victor shuffled to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of water. «Been like this all week, quiet as a tomb. They left Tuesday morning.» He poured himself a glass with slightly shaking hands. «Didn’t even stock the fridge properly. Hope you brought groceries.»
I hadn’t. I’d brought cranberries, sweet potatoes, and my special apple pie ingredients. These were contributions to what was supposed to be a family feast, not provisions for an abandoned holiday.
My phone pinged with a notification. With a surge of hope, thinking it might be Brady, I quickly checked it. Instead, it was an Instagram alert. Brady’s sister had tagged him in a photo. With trembling fingers, I opened the app. The image knocked the wind from me.
Brady was standing on a cruise ship deck, his arm around a young blonde woman I recognized as Hannah, his work colleague he’d mentioned increasingly often over the past few months. They were holding champagne flutes, toasting the camera. The caption read, «#NewBeginnings #CaribbeanGetaway with @BradyMitchell and family.»
Family. The word stung like salt in an open wound. I scrolled through more photos. There was Brady’s mother, Elaine, sipping a cocktail, looking anything but like someone who needed a break from caring for Victor. Another photo showed Brady and Hannah at what appeared to be a romantic dinner. The post was time-stamped two days ago, which meant this had been planned long before Brady told me we were expected at his mother’s for Thanksgiving.
«Find something interesting?» Victor asked, studying my face.
I turned the phone screen toward him. «They’re on a cruise with Hannah from his office. The one he said was just a colleague.» My voice cracked. «They’ve been planning this while I was buying gifts and taking time off work for what I thought was a family Thanksgiving.»
Victor nodded grimly. «Hannah’s been in the picture for at least three months. She’s called here asking for Brady several times. Pretty voice, terrible laugh.»
I stared at him. «You knew.»
«I know a lot of things they don’t think I notice.» He tapped his temple with a gnarled finger. «Mine’s still sharp, despite what Brady tells everyone.»
My thoughts raced to our bank account. With shaking hands, I opened our banking app. Three days ago: a $5,200 withdrawal. It was almost our entire savings, money we’d been putting aside for a down payment on a house. The house Brady had promised we’d start looking for after the holidays.
«He took our savings,» I whispered, showing Victor the screen. «All of it.»
Victor wasn’t surprised. «They’ve been doing the same to me for years. Taking a little here, a little there. ‘For your care, Victor,’ they say.» He gestured around the cold room. «Meanwhile, the heat’s turned down to save money. My medications are sometimes delayed, and Elaine buys herself another designer purse.»
I felt sick. This wasn’t just about a ruined Thanksgiving or even the betrayal of an affair. This was calculated abandonment of me, of Victor, of responsibilities and promises. My phone rang. It was my best friend Leah, calling to wish me a happy Thanksgiving. I silenced it, unable to explain this humiliation just yet.
«There’s leftover soup,» Victor offered. «Not much of a Thanksgiving feast, but it’ll do.»
I looked around the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and empty takeout containers on the counter. They hadn’t even cleaned up before leaving. Something hardened inside me. «No,» I said firmly. «We deserve better than leftover soup.»
I grabbed my coat and purse. «I’m going to the grocery store. They might still have some turkey breasts and potatoes. We’re having a proper meal today.»
Victor looked surprised, then pleased. «Haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months. Brady always brings fast food when he bothers to come by.»
At the grocery store, my mind whirled with questions and emotions. How long had Brady been planning to leave me? Was our entire five-year marriage just a convenient arrangement he could discard when something better came along? I mechanically selected a small turkey breast, potatoes, and some vegetables, barely registering the other last-minute shoppers around me.
When I returned, Victor had managed to clear the kitchen counter and was sitting at the table with a stack of papers.
«What’s all this?» I asked, setting down the groceries.
«Evidence,» he replied, his blue eyes suddenly steely. «Bank statements, medical records, documented neglect. I’ve been keeping track for months.» He pushed a folder toward me. «Brady and Elaine think I’m just a burden waiting to die. They don’t know I’ve been watching them strip my accounts while providing minimum care.»
I glanced at the papers. There were detailed notes, account statements showing suspicious transfers, and copies of medical recommendations that had been ignored. «Why are you showing me this?» I asked, unsettled by his methodical documentation.
Victor leaned forward, suddenly looking less frail. «Because you’ve been wronged too, Jade. And because I don’t have much time left.» He tapped a medical report. «Terminal cancer. Three months at most.»
I sat down heavily across from him. «I’m so sorry, Victor.»
He waved away my sympathy. «Don’t be sorry. Be smart.» He looked at me with unexpected intensity. «They think they’ve left you with a burden, but they’ve actually given us an opportunity.»
«An opportunity for what?»
Victor’s thin lips curved into a smile that transformed his face. «For justice.» He reached for an envelope and slid it across the table. «Inside is my real will and trust documents. Not the one Brady and Elaine think exists.»
I didn’t touch the envelope. «Victor, I don’t understand.»
He leaned back in his chair and studied me. After a moment, he simply said, «Shall we begin?» Those three words hung in the air between us, loaded with possibility and hidden meaning. Before I could respond, he explained his proposition. Help him document the family’s neglect and betrayal, assist with his final arrangements, and he would ensure I’d be taken care of financially after he was gone. The family who abandoned us both would lose everything they thought was coming to them.
I stared at him, this man I barely knew but with whom I suddenly shared a profound connection. We had both been deceived and discarded by the same people. Outside, the late afternoon shadows lengthened across an empty driveway where a family should have gathered. Inside, an unexpected alliance was forming.
«Yes,» I said finally, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. «Let’s begin.»
After our agreement, Victor sank back in his chair, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. The excitement of our newfound alliance had temporarily energized him, but now the fatigue returned to his face. «You should rest,» I said, noticing the pallor beneath his weathered skin. «I’ll finish making our dinner.»
Victor shook his head. «First, there’s something you need to see.» He pushed himself up with effort. «My medical records. You need to understand what we’re working with and how little time we have.»
He led me to a small bedroom that had clearly once been an office but was now converted into a makeshift sleeping space. A hospital bed occupied one corner, though Victor hadn’t been using it. Instead, a regular twin bed against the opposite wall showed signs of use. «Can’t stand that contraption,» he explained, gesturing at the hospital bed. «Makes me feel like I’m already in hospice.»
From a locked drawer in the desk, Victor withdrew a thick folder labeled simply «Medical.» He handed it to me without ceremony. «Pancreatic cancer,» he said flatly as I opened it. «Stage four. Diagnosed three months ago.» I scanned the documents, my stomach tightening at the clinical descriptions and grim prognosis. Various oncologists’ notes, treatment recommendations, and scan results told the unmistakable story of a terminal illness.
«Two months,» Victor added. «Maybe less now. The last scan showed rapid progression.»
I looked up sharply. «Brady knows this?»
«Oh yes. They all do. His mother was at the appointment when we got the diagnosis.» His laugh held no humor. «Two days later, she started talking about how she needed a break from caretaking. Sixty-six years old and claiming exhaustion while I’m dying at seventy-eight.»
The cruelty of it struck me like a physical blow. «They abandoned you knowing you only had months left?»
«Weeks, more likely,» Victor eased himself onto the edge of the bed. «But that’s not even the worst of it. Look at the medication list.» I flipped to the prescription sheets. Multiple medications were listed: pain management, anti-nausea drugs, enzymes to help with digestion. «Check the bathroom cabinet,» Victor directed. «Compare what’s there with what should be there.»
In the adjoining bathroom, I found a disorganized collection of pill bottles. As I examined them, comparing them with the documentation, disturbing discrepancies emerged. The powerful pain medication had been refilled twice according to the pharmacy labels, but the bottle was nearly full. The expensive enzyme supplements were only half full when they should have been almost untouched based on the refill date.
«They’ve been diluting them,» Victor confirmed when I returned with the evidence. «One pill instead of two. Half doses of the pain medication. And those appointments for the palliative care specialist? ‘Too expensive,’ Elaine said.» My hands trembled with anger as I returned the documentation to its folder.
«That’s not just neglect, Victor. That’s abuse.»
«It’s what happens when people see you as an obstacle rather than a person.» He pulled a small notebook from beneath his pillow and handed it to me. «I’ve been keeping track. Times when medications were missed or reduced. Appointments canceled. Money that disappeared from my checking account for home care supplies that never materialized.» The meticulous documentation stunned me. Pages of dates, times, and specific incidents. Despite his illness, Victor’s mind remained razor-sharp.
«Let me fix you something to eat,» I said, needing a moment to process everything. «You must be hungry.»
In the kitchen, I found pitiful supplies: a few cans of soup, some stale bread, milk on the verge of spoiling. From my grocery run, I managed to put together a decent meal of roasted turkey breast, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It was not the Thanksgiving feast I’d planned, but far better than leftover soup.
As we ate at the small kitchen table, Victor studied me. «Tell me about your marriage,» he said finally. «When did you first notice Brady wasn’t who you thought he was?»
The directness of the question caught me off guard. I poked at my food, considering how to answer. «It was gradual,» I admitted. «When we first met, Brady was attentive, supportive of my graphic design work. I was building my client base, had my own small studio apartment, good friends.» I paused, realizing how much had changed. «After we married, he suggested I work from home to save on studio rent. It made sense financially, but then my equipment kept having issues. Computer problems, software glitches.»
Victor nodded knowingly. «Isolation tactic.»
«Exactly. Then came suggestions about which clients weren’t worth my time. Concerns about me being out late with friends. He’d check my phone, claiming he was just looking for a number.» The patterns were so clear in hindsight. «When my father died last year and left me $30,000, Brady insisted we put it in our joint account for our future. That money was supposed to be for our house down payment.»
«The money he just spent on a cruise with another woman,» Victor added quietly.
I set down my fork, my appetite gone. Six years of my life. And now I find out he’s been planning to leave me while spending our savings on his coworker.
«People like Brady and Elaine see relationships as transactions,» Victor said. «I learned that too late with her. I was already successful when we met, widowed with a comfortable portfolio from my banking career. She was charming, beautiful, and Brady was just a teenager who seemed to need a father figure.» He sighed heavily. «After we married, things changed. Expenses increased, justified as ‘living the life we deserve.’ When I tried to maintain some financial boundaries, I became the villain. Stingy, controlling, not really committed to the family.»
«That sounds familiar,» I murmured.
After dinner, Victor led me to his study. It was a small room Brady’s mother had converted to a meditation space, but it still held Victor’s desk. «Help me with the painting,» he requested, pointing to a mediocre landscape on the wall. Behind it was not a safe, as I expected, but a loose panel in the wall. Victor removed it and pulled out a weatherproof document case.
«My real assets,» he explained, spreading the contents across the desk. «Investments Elaine knows nothing about. Property in Vermont. Accounts in the Cayman Islands from my banking days.» I stared at the documents in shock. The amounts were substantial, well over three million dollars in assets entirely separate from what the family could access.
«Brady and his mother have been siphoning from my known accounts for years,» Victor explained. «But this, they can’t touch. I made sure of it.» He pointed to a property deed. «This house. It’s not in my name or Elaine’s. It’s owned by one of my holding companies. They think they’re inheriting it. They’re not.»
«Does Brady know any of this?» I asked, stunned by the extent of Victor’s hidden wealth.
«Not a cent. Even my attorney doesn’t know the full picture. Only my financial advisor in Boston, and he’s been sworn to secrecy.» Victor’s eyes held a fierce determination I hadn’t seen before. «I always knew Brady’s true character. He’s just like his mother: charming to your face while reaching for your wallet. I just never thought he would do the same to his wife.»
The next morning brought another development: a discreet visit from Patricia Winters, Victor’s attorney. She was a stern woman in her sixties with impeccable silver hair and penetrating green eyes. She arrived carrying a briefcase full of legal documents. «So you’re the abandoned daughter-in-law,» she said, assessing me with a frank gaze. «Victor called me last night, said you were an unexpected ally.»
Over coffee, Patricia laid out what Victor had been working on legally: documenting the neglect, changing his will, and creating financial structures that would be ironclad against challenges. «We need to finalize several documents,» Patricia explained, «transfers that need witnessing, medical powers of attorney, final amendments to the will.»
I offered to help organize the evidence Victor had collected. My graphic design background made me good with digital organization and documentation. «Perfect,» Patricia nodded approvingly. «We’ll need everything properly cataloged for when they inevitably contest the will.»
That evening, after Patricia left with the signed documents, Victor and I sat in the living room with a photo album he’d pulled from a bookshelf. «Look at this,» he said, pointing to a photo of Brady as a teenager, his mother behind him, always whispering in his ear. He turned the page. «Here’s Brady’s father before the divorce. Notice how miserable he looks. Elaine did to him what Brady’s doing to you.»
Page after page revealed patterns I recognized from my own marriage: subtle control, financial manipulation, the caring facade that dropped when money was involved.
«It’s like seeing my own life from the outside,» I whispered.
Victor nodded, understanding in his tired eyes. «That’s why we need to stop them now, before they do this to someone else.» In that moment, our alliance solidified into something deeper than convenience or mutual benefit. We were two people who had been betrayed by the same family, now united in seeking justice.
«We’re not just getting revenge,» Victor said, closing the album gently. «We’re making things right.»
I reached over and squeezed his thin hand. «Yes,» I said. «For both of us.»
The next morning, I woke with renewed purpose. Victor and I had stayed up late strategizing, and now it was time to put our plan into action. After checking on Victor, who was having a relatively good day despite his condition, I made a quick breakfast and laid out our priorities.
«First,» I said, pouring him a cup of tea, «we need to establish the narrative of your rapid decline.»
Victor nodded. «Patricia mentioned her brother owns a medical supply company. He might be willing to help discreetly.» One phone call later, and Patricia’s brother, James, was on board. By noon, he arrived in an unmarked van with everything we needed: an oxygen tank (non-functioning but visually convincing), IV stands, monitors with detachable leads, and even a collection of empty medication vials with realistic-looking labels.
«Medical theater,» James called it with a wink as he helped us transform Victor’s bedroom into what looked like an intensive home care setup. «I used to stage medical dramas sometimes. I never thought I’d be using my props for real-life drama.»
With Victor’s direction, I arranged the equipment for maximum visual impact. The oxygen tank was prominently displayed, an IV stand was positioned by the bed, and various monitoring devices were arranged on the bedside table. I made the bed with hospital-grade sheets Patricia had also provided, completing the illusion of serious medical intervention.
«Now for the photographic evidence,» I said, taking out my phone. Victor settled into bed, coaching me on how to make him appear worse than he was. «Shadows,» he instructed. «Lighting from above will deepen the hollows of my face.» He removed his glasses, making his eyes appear sunken, and mussed his thin hair. With minimal theatrical makeup skills from my college days, I accentuated the pallor already present in his complexion. The transformation was startling.
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.
