My son pinned me down while his wife forced mouthwash into my mouth to “fix my foul breath.” They sneered that my mouth was a “cesspool of failures.” Convinced I was a frail elderly woman they could crush and cast aside, they didn’t realize I’d been covertly recording their cruelty for weeks — and they’d just handed me the final piece of proof I needed.
The pungent smell of peppermint rushed into my nose, making tears well up in my eyes.
“Hold her down, Mark! Your mother is struggling!” Jessica, my daughter-in-law, shrieked loudly in the cramped space of the marble bathroom.
I, Eleanor Vance, 75 years old, was pinned down to the cold floor. The large hands holding my shoulders, preventing me from moving, were the hands of Mark – the only son I had carried and raised with all my life.
“Mom, stay still,” Mark grumbled, his voice not filled with pity, only annoyance. “Jessica just wants to help you. Your breath stinks, like a corpse. We can’t bear to go in and clean up after you.”
“Open your mouth!” Jessica commanded.
She squeezed my jaw, forcing my mouth open. The green liquid from the large bottle of mouthwash poured down my throat like a waterfall. I choked, coughing, the burning sensation spreading from my throat to my stomach. I struggled, but the strength of an old woman recovering from a stroke was nothing compared to two healthy people filled with malice.
The liquid spilled from the corner of my mouth and ran down the collar of my pajamas, sticky and cold.
Jessica sneered. She straightened up, looking down at me with the eyes of someone looking at a pile of trash that needed to be cleaned up.
“Look at you,” she smirked, kicking me lightly in the ribs. “Your mouth is a cesspool of losers, Eleanor. Old, smelly, and useless. You think you’re still the queen of this house? Now you’re just a dead weight waiting to die.”
Mark let me go. He stood up, wiping his hands on his pants as if he’d touched something dirty. He didn’t meet my eyes. He looked in the mirror, straightening his hair.
“Okay, that’s clean enough for tonight,” Mark said. “The lawyer’s coming tomorrow at 9 a.m. Are you sure she’ll sign?”
“She will,” Jessica insisted, leaning down to whisper in my ear, her breath reeking of expensive wine—the kind I’d kept in the cellar for the past 20 years. “You hear me, old lady? Tomorrow, you’re signing over all your assets to Mark. If you try anything… tonight’s mouthwash will be a gentle prelude. Next time, it might be bleach.”
They turned off the bathroom light, walked out, and slammed the door, leaving me curled up on the wet floor, coughing in the darkness and the nauseating smell of peppermint.
They thought I’d collapsed. They thought the stroke six months ago had turned me into a senile old woman, paraplegic and speechless. They were wrong.
I lay there, waiting for their footsteps to fade into the master bedroom—the room that used to be mine.
I slowly sat up. My movements were slow, but not shaky like before. I spat the remaining mouthwash into the toilet and flushed.
I walked to the sink and looked in the mirror. A thin, gray-haired old woman with sunken eyes. But deep in those eyes, the fire of a former Connecticut Supreme Court Justice still burned brightly.
Six months ago, I had a mild stroke. The doctor said I would recover completely with physical therapy. But Mark and Jessica quickly took me home, fired my personal nurse, and took “care” of me themselves. Their plan was simple: Isolate me, weaken me physically and mentally, and force me to sign over $10 million in assets and this mansion before I died.
They thought I had aphasia and paralysis. I had figured out their plan from the first week, when Jessica deliberately “forgot” to give me my blood pressure medication. From then on, I acted. I played the part of a vegetative old woman, drooling, shaking hands, glazed eyes.
But every night, when they were fast asleep, I exercised. I walked around the room to keep my muscles from atrophying. I read in the dark to keep my mind sharp. And most importantly, I collected evidence.
I reached up to my collar and touched the emerald butterfly brooch. It was a wedding anniversary gift from my late husband. Jessica tried to snatch it away several times, but I acted out a violent seizure every time she touched it, scaring her into giving up. She called it “old-fashioned.”
Little did she know that, three weeks ago, during a rare visit from an old friend (before Jessica banned me), I had her install a tiny camera and recorder in the butterfly’s eye.
Everything that happened in the bathroom tonight. Mark holding me. Jessica pouring water down my throat. The threat of bleach. The “shithole of losers” comment. It was all recorded. Sharp. Clear. And streamed directly to the cloud via the Wi-Fi network whose password I had secretly guessed.
I wiped my face, adjusted my clothes, and went back to bed. I would sleep well tonight. Because tomorrow was judgment day.
9 AM. Bright sunlight streamed into the luxurious living room. Mark and Jessica dressed up. M
Mark wore an Armani suit, Jessica wore a silk dress I’d bought in Paris last year. They looked like a typical filial couple.
Sitting across from them was Mr. Henderson, my longtime family lawyer. He looked much older, his eyes looking at me with concern as I sat in the wheelchair, my head tilted to one side, my hands trembling in my lap.
“Eleanor,” Mr. Henderson said softly. “Do you understand this document? This is a Durable Power of Attorney. If you sign it, Mark will have full authority over your finances and medical care.”
“I understand,” Mark quickly interjected, placing his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it—a threatening squeeze. “You told me you wanted to rest. You wanted me to take charge, didn’t you?”
I made meaningless uh… ah… sounds, drool running from the corner of my mouth. Jessica quickly took a tissue to wipe me, acting rough but trying to appear kind in front of the lawyer.
“See?” Jessica sighed, looking miserable. “Mom’s condition is getting worse. We need this paper to withdraw money to pay for the hospital bills and hire the best nurse for her.”
“Okay,” Mr. Henderson sighed, pushing the paper and pen towards me. “Please sign here, or fingerprint if you can’t hold a pen.”
Mark pressed the pen into my hand. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, a fake smile hiding his threat: “Sign it, old lady. Or tonight it’ll be bleach.”
I took the pen. My hands were shaking violently. Ink was smeared on the paper. Mark and Jessica held their breaths. Their eyes were shining with extreme greed. Just one more signature and they would have it all.
But instead of signing, I suddenly dropped the pen on the table. Clink.
I slowly raised my head. I adjusted my posture, back straight, as majestic as when I sat on the judge’s bench. I took the tissue from Jessica’s hand, wiped my mouth firmly.
And then, I looked straight into Mark’s eyes, and said in a clear, steely voice they hadn’t heard in six months:
“I don’t think so, Mark. I’m not going to sign anything for a rebellious son and his vile wife.”
The room fell into a dead silence. Mark’s mouth fell open. Jessica dropped the glass of orange juice in her hand, shattering on the wooden floor. Mr. Henderson was stunned, his glasses slipping down his nose.
“Mom… Mom can speak?” Mark stammered, his face drained of color. “Mom… Mom is pretending?”
“Surprised?” I smiled coldly. “I’m a judge, Mark. I know how to observe the defendant before sentencing. And I’ve observed you guys long enough.”
“You… you fooled us!” Jessica screamed, about to rush forward, but my sharp gaze stopped her. “You cunning old woman!”
“Mr. Henderson,” I turned to the lawyer, ignoring Jessica. “Do you have what I asked for in the secret email last week?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Henderson, after a moment of shock, quickly regained his professional composure. He smiled, pulling another file from his briefcase. It turned out he knew part of my plan.
“This isn’t a power of attorney,” I said to Mark. “This is an Order of Deportation and a Criminal Complaint.”
“Complaint? What are you complaining about? You have no proof!” Jessica screamed. “We took good care of you! Who would believe a crazy old woman’s words!”
“Oh, I think the jury will believe this,” I reached for my brooch.
I took my iPad from my handbag hidden on the side of my wheelchair. I pressed play and turned the screen toward them.
The video from last night came back into focus. Mark’s voice was yelling. Jessica was pouring mouthwash down my throat. And the words rang out loud and clear: “Your mouth is a cesspool of losers… Next time, maybe bleach.”
Mark’s face turned from white to green. Jessica trembled, backed away, and bumped into the liquor cabinet.
“This is Elder Abuse, Intentional Injury, and Threatening to Kill,” I listed each charge as if reading a sentence. “In Connecticut, these charges can get you 10 to 20 years in prison.”
“Mom! You can’t do this!” Mark fell to his knees on the floor, crawling toward me. “I’m your son! I was pressured… Jessica made me! Please forgive me!”
“Coward!” Jessica kicked Mark. “You blame me? You wanted her money to pay off gambling debts!”
“Enough!” I shouted. “I don’t care who instigated who. You’re both rotten to the core.”
Police sirens blared from outside the gate.
“I sent this video to the Sheriff 30 minutes ago,” I said. “They’re coming to get the real ‘losers’ out of my house.”
The police stormed into the house. Mark was crying like a baby, begging me to withdraw the complaint. Jessica was cursing and cursing me to hell until she was handcuffed and put in a car.
I sat in my wheelchair, watching them being dragged out the window. Mr. Henderson put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Eleanor?”
“I’ve never been better, Arthur,” I said, getting up from the wheelchair. I didn’t need it anymore. My legs were weak, but I was going to learn to walk again.
“What about the will?” Mr. Henderson asked.
“Cancel everything,” I said.
i said firmly. “I’m selling this house. The money will go to the Elder Abuse Fund and the Pet Dog and Cat Shelter. Mark won’t get a penny, not even a button.”
I stepped out onto the porch. The autumn wind blew, carrying with it the smell of dry leaves and freedom. I remembered what Jessica had said last night: “A cesspool of losers.”
I smiled. They were right about one thing: This house had become a cesspool of their rotten souls. But now, I had cleaned it up.
I grabbed the bottle of mouthwash Jessica had left on the living room table—evidence from the crime. I uncapped it and poured the green liquid into the flower bed.
“My breath smells so good,” I whispered. “It smells like justice.”
I turned back into the house, slammed the door, leaving behind my painful past and two unfilial children on their way to prison – the only place worthy of their “filial piety”.
