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

Victor’s condition is deteriorating faster than expected. The hospice nurse is concerned about his breathing. Please call me back as soon as you can.

I paused, then added with just the right tremor, I really need your support right now. I made similar calls every few hours, each message increasingly urgent, each carefully recorded. Between calls I created a detailed medical log with fictional but realistic episodes.

Temperature spikes, pain breakthrough, respiratory difficulties. I backdated some entries to create a consistent narrative of decline beginning before they even left on their cruise. You should have been an actress, Victor commented as I showed him the log.

I prefer to think of it as creative non-fiction, I replied with a grim smile. Every good story needs documentation. Around 4 that afternoon, our planning was interrupted by a knock at the door.

I opened it to find an elderly woman holding a covered casserole dish. I’m Edith Peterson from next door, she announced. Thought you might need some dinner.

Looking after Victor is a full-time job, I imagine. I invited her in, grateful for both the food and the unexpected opportunity she presented. Over coffee, Mrs. Peterson revealed herself as a potential goldmine of information and support.

Been watching that family for years, she confided, lowering her voice as though Victor might overhear from his bedroom, though he was actually resting. The way they treat that poor man. Your husband is no better than his mother if you don’t mind my saying so.

I don’t mind at all, I assured her. I’m discovering exactly what kind of family I married into. Mrs. Peterson patted my hand.

Victor was so good to that boy, you know. Paid for his college, bought him his first car. And how does Brady repay him? By taking off on vacation while his stepfather is dying.

I let my genuine anger and hurt show. They left me a note. Just a note telling me to take care of him.

Shameful, Mrs. Peterson declared. Absolutely shameful. You know, the whole neighborhood has noticed.

Last month, when Victor fell in the yard, it was my Harold who helped him up. Brady was inside watching football, ignored our knocks completely. By the time she left, Mrs. Peterson had promised to spread the word among the neighbors that Victor needed support and visitors while his family was selfishly gallivanting in the Caribbean.

I carefully documented her statements and the date of her visit. Over the next two days, five more neighbors visited, each with their own stories of witnessing Brady’s neglect of Victor. Each visit strengthened our case and provided additional witnesses to both Victor’s apparent decline and the family’s absence during what they believed to be his final days.

On Saturday morning, Patricia returned with the final documents for the asset transfers. We drove Victor to the local bank where he’d been a customer for over 30 years. The manager, Mr. Collins, greeted him warmly.

Victor. Good to see you out and about. How are you feeling? Getting my affairs in order, Richard, Victor replied, his voice deliberately weaker than usual.

Memory still sharp even if the body’s failing. In the privacy of the manager’s office, Victor officially transferred control of his hidden assets to a series of trusts that would benefit me and several eldercare charities. Mr. Collins watched with sympathy as Victor’s shaking hand signed each document.

Your stepson was in last week, the manager mentioned casually as we completed the paperwork. Asking about your accounts, I reminded him that without proper authorization. Victor smiled thinly.

Always planning ahead that boy. I remember when he came in to cash that check for his graduation gift, Mr. Collins continued. Didn’t even thank you, just complained it wasn’t enough for the car he wanted.

Another piece of evidence, another witness to Brady’s character. That evening, as we were reviewing our progress, Victor’s phone rang with a video call from Melissa. We quickly put our plan into action, arranging Victor in bed surrounded by medical equipment, an oxygen cannula in his nostrils.

I must my hair and pinched my cheeks to bring a stressed flush to my face. When I answered the call, the camera showed me first looking exhausted. Oh, Jade, Melissa gasped.

You look terrible. Is everything okay? Managing, I said simply, turning the phone toward Victor, who gave an Oscar-worthy performance of semi-consciousness, his breathing deliberately labored. Uncle Victor? Melissa called.

It’s Melissa. Can you hear me? Victor’s eyes fluttered weakly. Melissa, he whispered…