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

That you, sweetheart? The concern in Melissa’s voice sounded genuine, but what came next revealed her true priorities. Should we come home early? Is he? Is he going to make it until Monday? I turned the camera back to my face. It’s hard to say.

The hospice nurse thinks his systems are shutting down. If you want to say goodbye. Let me talk to Brady and mom, she said quickly.

The thing is, these tickets were nonrefundable and mom’s been so stressed lately. I nodded understandingly while fighting back genuine disgust. Of course, it’s just that Victor keeps asking for Brady in his more lucid moments.

I’ll tell him to call, Melissa promised, as soon as they get back from their shore excursion. After ending the call, Victor sat up and removed the oxygen cannula. Did you record that? I held up my other phone, which had captured the entire conversation.

Every word. Victor’s smile was unsatisfied, but tinged with genuine sadness. My family weighing their cruise tickets against saying goodbye to me.

I knew it would happen exactly like this. I sat on the edge of his bed, suddenly emotional. I’m sorry, Victor.

He shook his head. Don’t be. Their true colors needed to be revealed.

He reached for my hand. You know what the strangest part is? These past few days with you, with someone who actually cares, have been better than months with them. We sat in companion silence, contemplating what we had set in motion and the final steps yet to come.

Our counterattack was fully underway, the trap nearly set. Now we just needed to spring it at precisely the right moment. Sunday morning dawned with a subtle shift in the atmosphere.

As I brought Victor his morning tea, I noticed his hands trembling more than usual, a bluish tint around his lips that hadn’t been there before. You don’t have to pretend for me, I said softly, helping him sit up. You’re really not feeling well today, are you? Victor’s smile was thin but genuine.

Ironic, isn’t it? After all our play-acting, the real thing sneaks up on us. I called the hospice nurse who had been making weekly visits before the family left. She promised to come by that afternoon but advised me on managing his comfort in the meantime.

This wasn’t acting anymore. Victor was actively declining and a rush of protectiveness swept over me. Our revenge scheme suddenly felt secondary to ensuring his comfort and dignity.

What would you like for breakfast? I asked trying to maintain normalcy. Peaches, he said surprising me. Fresh peaches with cream.

My late wife Martha used to prepare them every Sunday morning. The request sent me to three different grocery stores before finding decent peaches in November. When I returned and prepared them as he described, sliced into perfect crescents with a dollop of whipped cream, Victor’s eyes misted over at the first bite.

Just like she used to make, he whispered. No one’s bothered to remember such things about me in years. Throughout the day I found myself doing things not for our plan but simply for Victor’s comfort.

Adjusting his pillows, reading aloud from his dog-eared copy of Raymond Chandler’s, The Big Sleep, playing the classical music he mentioned enjoying. The genuine care that had developed between us over our short time together surprised me with its intensity. You know, Victor said during a lucid moment that afternoon, I haven’t been treated with such kindness since Martha died twelve years ago.

Strange how a stranger has shown me more compassion than my own family. The hospice nurse, Diane, arrived around three. After examining Victor she took me aside in the hallway.

His organs are shutting down, she said gently. It’s happening faster than we anticipated. I’d say he has hours, maybe a day at most.

Though I’d known this was coming, the news hit me harder than expected. Should I call the family? I asked, suddenly uncertain about our elaborate plan. Diane shook her head.

At this point it should be about his comfort, not theirs. If they’ve chosen not to be here. She left the rest unsaid.

After she left, I sat beside Victor, who had overheard everything despite our hushed voices. Don’t call them, he said firmly. They made their choice.

But we do need to finalize some matters. He reached for my hand. Call Patricia.

Tell her it’s time for the final steps. Patricia arrived within the hour, bringing a notary named Thomas with her. Victor was remarkably alert as they entered, as if summoning his remaining strength for this last important task.

Are you sure you’re up to this? Patricia asked, concerned by his appearance. More certain than ever, Victor replied. Death has a way of clarifying priorities…