Two months after I discovered the forged property documents, Thomas asked me to sign something at breakfast.
He placed three pages beside my coffee.
“What is it?”
“Just some administrative paperwork.”
I looked at him.
Thomas had always been a poor liar.
As a child, his ears turned pink when he hid something.
They still did.
“What kind of administrative paperwork?”
“Related to the house.”
Élodie was standing at the kitchen counter with her back to us.
I saw her shoulders become still.
I picked up the pages.
They concerned permission for Thomas to act on my behalf regarding certain property matters.
The language was broad.
Too broad.
“You want authority over the house?”
“It’s only practical.”
“For whom?”
“For all of us.”
“I don’t understand.”
Thomas sighed.
“Maman, if something happens and you need long-term care, someone has to manage things.”
“I am managing things.”
“With help.”
“That’s different.”
Élodie turned around.
“No one is trying to take anything from you.”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t say anyone was.”
She realized her mistake immediately.
Thomas did not.
He rubbed his forehead.
“Can we not turn this into a fight?”
“There isn’t a fight.”
I pushed the papers back toward him.
“I’m not signing.”
Thomas stared.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
It may have been the first time in three years that I had refused him without explanation.
Élodie crossed the kitchen.
She placed one hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Leave it.”
Her voice was calm.
But her eyes were on me.
Thomas collected the papers.
“Fine.”
He left for work ten minutes later without kissing my cheek.
Élodie remained.
She washed his cup.
Wiped the counter.
Straightened a chair.
Then she came behind my wheelchair and gripped the handles.
For one terrible second, I thought she might tip me backward.
Instead she pushed me away from the table.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Living room.”
“I didn’t ask to go there.”
Her hands paused.
Then she leaned closer.
“You’ve become very suspicious lately.”
I looked straight ahead.
“Have I?”
“You should be careful.”
“About what?”
“Stress. It isn’t good for your condition.”
She wheeled me into the living room and positioned me beside the window.
Then she removed my phone from the side pocket of the chair.
I heard the small click as it left the fabric.
“Give me that.”
She looked at the screen.
“It’s almost dead.”
“It isn’t.”
“I’ll charge it.”
“Élodie.”
She smiled.
“I’ll bring it back.”
She left with it.
My recorder had been running.
For fifteen minutes, I sat motionless.
If she discovered the recording application open, everything would change.
The front door opened.
Closed.
I rolled toward the hallway.
She was gone.
My phone was not on the charger.
I searched the kitchen first.
Then the hall table.
Then her office.
Nothing.
Panic began building in my chest.
I could call Claire from the landline, but I didn’t know what Élodie had seen.
Twenty minutes later, the front door opened again.
Élodie came inside carrying groceries.
She placed my phone in the chair pocket.
“Found your charger.”
I looked at the battery.
Eighty-two percent.
The recorder had stopped.
My throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
She kissed the top of my head.
That evening, I checked the audio files.
The newest recording was still there.
It ended seconds after Élodie took the phone.
She had stopped it.
But she had not deleted it.
Maybe she had assumed I accidentally activated the recorder.
Maybe she had not noticed.
Or maybe she wanted me to know she had.
I called Claire the next day.
“Leave,” she said.
One word.
No legal explanation.
No strategy.
“Come stay somewhere else until we can secure everything.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“If I leave, they’ll destroy documents.”
“You have enough.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Madeleine—”
“Thomas is my son.”
Claire went quiet.
“I need to know how much he knows.”
“Why?”
“Because if I leave without knowing, I will spend the rest of my life wondering.”
“That answer may hurt you.”
“It already does.”
She exhaled.
“Then promise me something.”
“What?”
“If the behavior escalates, you do not stay for answers.”
I promised.
Again.
The problem with promises made from inside danger is that danger rarely announces when it has escalated.
It becomes normal one degree at a time.
A door locked.
A phone removed.
A medicine moved.
A forged signature.
A financial demand.
Each act is worse than the last, but because you survived the previous one, you tell yourself you can survive another.
My rehabilitation continued.
I graduated from the parallel bars to a walker.
Then, on strong days, to a cane with Camille beside me.
I could not walk far.
Thirty meters left my legs shaking.
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