I returned home for Thanksgiving, eager to embrace the holiday spirit. The house stood silent—save for Victor, my husband’s stepfather, seated in a rocking chair

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, 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, for 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.

Used to stage medical dramas sometimes. 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 prominently displayed, for stand positioned by the bed, various monitoring devices 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 must 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. Tau 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, 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. Direct, 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. Next came my most difficult performance yet.

I called Brady’s phone, knowing he wouldn’t answer but that his voicemail would record my message. Victor activated the recording app on his phone to preserve my side of the conversation. Brady, it’s me again, I said, injecting controlled panic into my voice…