My son held my hand tightly while my daughter-in-law poured paint all over my head, all because she suspected me of secretly eating turkey from the refrigerator. They treated me like a stinky old woman. They didn’t realize they would pay a heavy price for what they had done…
A gnawing hunger woke me up at 2 a.m. At 75, my stomach wasn’t in good shape, but this emptiness wasn’t just physical. It came from being starved all day in my son’s luxurious penthouse apartment.
I, Eleanor Sterling, tiptoed out of the maid’s quarters – the place my daughter-in-law, Bella, had “kindly” arranged for me to sleep in when I visited from Chicago.
Their kitchen was spacious, its Italian marble floors gleaming cold. I opened the refrigerator. A yellowish light shone out, illuminating the leftover roast turkey from last night’s party – a party I wasn’t allowed to sit at because Bella said “Mark’s friends don’t like senile old people.”
I tore off a small piece of turkey breast, just two fingers wide. I brought it to my mouth, savoring the sweet and salty taste of the cranberry sauce.
“Caught red-handed!”
The kitchen lights suddenly flicked on. I jumped, the piece of meat falling to the floor.
Bella stood there, arms crossed, wearing a flimsy silk dress, but her eyes were as sharp as razor blades. Beside her was Mark, my son, yawning repeatedly, his face full of displeasure.
“I told you so, Mark,” Bella hissed. “Your mother is like a sewer rat. Sneaky, dirty, and sneaky. Look, she’s picking up food with her unwashed hands! Disgusting!”
“Mom…” Mark rubbed his forehead, his voice weary. “I told you to eat the dry bread in the fridge if you were hungry. Why did you touch the turkey? That’s Bella’s portion for tomorrow’s brunch with the girls.”
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, bending down to pick up the meat. “I was so hungry… I haven’t eaten anything all day…”
“Don’t make excuses!” Bella yelled. She looked around, her gaze settling on the corner where the painter had just left a can of dark navy blue interior paint for repainting the accent wall.
A wicked smile spread across her lips.
“Mark, hold her hands.”
“What are you going to do?” Mark asked, but still stepped forward.
“She likes to mess up my food, doesn’t she? I’ll teach her how to be clean. Hold on tight!”
Chapter 2: The Cold Paint
Mark, the son I once held and shielded from the beatings of his alcoholic father, now approached me. He didn’t protect me. He grabbed both my wrists, twisting them behind my back.
“Mom, stay still,” Mark whispered in my ear, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Let Bella vent her anger. Don’t resist, you’ll drive her crazy and we’ll both be in trouble.”
“Mark, what are you doing? I’m your mother!” I screamed, struggling desperately.
But my 75-year-old strength was no match for the 35-year-old man who went to the gym every day. I was pinned down like a criminal.
Bella awkwardly lifted a 5-liter paint can. She didn’t hesitate.
Splash!
A thick, icy, heavy stream of liquid poured over my head.
Navy blue paint spilled over my hair, covering my eyes, nose, and mouth. It flowed down my collar, soaking into my skin, chilling me to the bone. The pungent chemical smell assaulted my lungs, making me cough and gasp for breath.
“There!” Bella laughed maniacally, throwing the empty can to the floor with a clatter. “Now you look exactly like yourself. A filthy old hag!”
Mark released me. I collapsed to the floor, sliding through the puddle of paint. My eyes stung so much I couldn’t open them. I tried to brush the paint off my face to breathe.
“Take her out onto the balcony,” Bella ordered. “Don’t let her stain the living room carpet. Send her back to Chicago tomorrow morning. I can’t take it anymore.”
They dragged me out onto the windy balcony of the 40th floor in the middle of a New York winter. Mark threw me a thin blanket soaked in paint.
“Sit here and let the paint dry,” he said coldly, then closed and locked the glass door.
I sat there, huddled in the corner of the balcony, looking through the glass. Inside, they were laughing, pouring wine, celebrating as if they had just defeated a dangerous enemy. The paint began to dry, stinging my skin.
But the physical pain was nothing compared to my broken heart.
They thought I was a poor, widowed old woman living on social welfare in Chicago. They didn’t know the real reason I was in New York this time. And they certainly didn’t know who I was.
Chapter 3: The Guest at Dawn
I survived that night thanks to the willpower of hatred. When dawn broke, the paint had dried on my hair and skin, turning me into a grotesque green statue.
8 a.m. The doorbell of the penthouse rang.
Bella and Mark were still sleeping in. The incessant ringing made Mark groggily get up to open the door.
I looked through the glass. Standing in front of the door was James Sterling – my private lawyer – and he was accompanied by two New York City police officers.
Mark opened the door, rubbing his eyes: “Who is it? So early in the morning…”
“Hello, Mark,” James said, his voice serious, adjusting his briefcase. “I am the lawyer representing the owner of The Sovereign Towers. We received an emergency signal from the chairwoman’s health monitoring device.”
“The owner?” Mark looked bewildered. “You’ve got the wrong house, old man. We rented this one through a real estate agent. And which president are you talking about?”
“Eleanor Sterling,” James said, his eyes glancing over Mark’s shoulder, straight out onto the balcony where I sat slumped over.
Mark’s face changed color. “Eleanor? That one?”
“That’s my mother’s name… but her last name is Vance, isn’t it?”
“She changed back to her maiden name after her husband died and she took over the Sterling Group real estate empire,” James explained coldly, then pushed Mark aside and walked straight into the house. “THE CHAIRMAN!”
Police burst in after James. Bella, now in a bathrobe, emerged from the bedroom, shouting, “What’s going on?” “Why are the police in my house?”
James didn’t answer. He rushed out to open the balcony door and helped me up.
“Oh my God, Eleanor!” James exclaimed when he saw my state. The blue paint had matted my hair into clumps, and my skin was cracked. “Are you alright?”
I leaned on James’s arm to stand up. Though I looked pathetic, my eyes were more fiery than ever.
“I’m fine, James,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Just a little… colorful.”
Mark and Bella stood frozen in place, their mouths agape.
“Mom…?” Mark stammered. “The… the president? You’re rich? Why never did you say so?”
“Because I wanted to see,” I walked into the living room, each step leaving a trail of dried paint on the stone floor. “I wanted to see what I am to you guys when I don’t have money.” And I got my answer: A rat.
Chapter 4: The Price of a Can of Paint
“Mom, listen to my explanation!” Bella, the world’s quickest to change her mind, lunged forward, about to kneel. “It was a misunderstanding! I thought… I thought it was a burglar! I was sleepwalking! Mark, say something!”
“A burglar?” I sneered, my face contorted with pain from the tension. “Stealing turkey from your own son’s refrigerator?”
I turned to James.
“Lawyer, read them about this property.”
James opened his briefcase and pulled out a legal document.
“This penthouse is directly owned by Eleanor Sterling.” “Mark Vance is allowed free residency under an ‘Indefinite Housing Loan Agreement’ with one prerequisite: Maintaining good morals and respect for the owner.”
James looked at the empty paint can lying in the corner of the room.
“The act of pouring paint on the owner and locking him out on the balcony in sub-zero temperatures constitutes the crimes of: Intentional Infliction of Injury, Elder Abuse, and grave breach of contract.”
“So… so what does that mean?” Mark asked, trembling.
“It means,” I interrupted James. “I’m revoking your residency rights. Immediately.”
“Mom, you’re kicking us out?” Bella yelled. “We have nowhere to go! Mark is unemployed, and I just quit my job to be a housewife!” “What you’re doing is killing your own children and grandchildren!”
“Kill?” I moved closer to Bella. The smell of paint on me made her wrinkle her nose reflexively, but fear prevented her from backing away. “Last night, when you poured this chemical on my head, did you think I could go blind? When you locked me outside in the cold, did you think I could freeze to death?”
I turned to Mark – my weak-willed son.
“And you, Mark. Your grip last night…it was so tight. It severed even the mother-son bond.”
I gestured to the police.
“Officers, I want to report these two for assault and elder abuse. The evidence is that paint can and…” I pointed to myself, “…this body too.” “The kitchen security camera recorded everything, right, James?”
“Yes, ma’am, this apartment’s hidden camera system stores real-time cloud footage,” James nodded.
Mark’s face turned as white as a sheet of paper. He knew where that camera was. He was finished.
Chapter 5: The Finishing Picture
An hour later.
Mark and Bella were handcuffed and escorted out of the building. They weren’t allowed to take anything but the clothes on their backs. All their designer clothes, bags, watches, jewelry… everything was confiscated because they were bought with the secondary credit card I gave Mark – the one I canceled just 5 minutes earlier.
Neighbors in the Upper East Side whispered among themselves as they watched the glamorous couple being dragged away like criminals.
I stood on the balcony, having received first aid and had some of the paint around my eyes wiped away. I looked down at the street. Police cars were blaring their sirens.
James stood beside me, handing me a cup of tea. It was hot.
“What are you going to do with this apartment, Eleanor?”
I looked into the living room, where streaks of blue paint still oozed across the white marble floor. It looked like an abstract work of art depicting human cruelty.
“Leave the paint as it is,” I said. “Don’t clean it up.” “I’m going to turn this place into a charity office.”
“A charity for whom?”
“For lonely elderly people abandoned by their children,” I sipped my tea, feeling the warmth spread through my cold chest. “And name it ‘The Turkey Project’.”
James chuckled softly.
I looked down at my hands – wrinkled hands still stained with stubborn blue paint that hadn’t been removed. I’ll have to live with these scars, both on my skin and in my heart. But at least, I’m no longer a smelly, parasitic old woman. I’m Eleanor Sterling, and I’ve just cleaned the rubbish out of my life.
Down the street, the police car carrying my son and daughter-in-law disappeared around the intersection. They’ll have plenty of time in jail to think about the value of a piece of turkey, and the exorbitant price of a can of paint.
