I woke from my coma just in time to hear my son Aaron whisper to his sister. “When he d/ie/s, we will put the old woman in a nursing home.”
My bl00d froze. I had survived a str0ke. I had clawed my way back from dea/th. And those were the first words I heard. I wanted to rise and shout, but I kept my eyes closed. I needed to listen. I needed to understand how the children Lucinda and I had sacrificed everything for had become people planning to erase us.
The doctors had told them I might never wake up. Maybe that opened the door to their greed. The house was paid for. Our savings were strong. The insurance payout was large. Too large. As they stood over me, their voices turned cold.
“Get the paperwork ready,” Aaron muttered. “When she is gone, we sell everything. Mom will not resist. She fears being alone.”
Bianca sighed. “We just act sad for a few weeks. People will believe it.”
Their steps faded down the corridor as they continued whispering. My heart pounded, but I stayed still. One thing was certain. If they knew I heard them, Lucinda and I would not be safe.
That night, when the nurse came to fix my blanket, I opened my eyes slightly and whispered.
“Call my wife. Tell her not to talk to anyone except me.”
The nurse nodded, shocked but gentle. Lucinda arrived after midnight, shaking. When I told her what I had heard, she covered her mouth and cried in silence. The cry of love betrayed after decades of devotion.
“We leave tomorrow,” I whispered.
And we did. Before the sun rose. When our children returned to the hospital the next morning, pretending concern, pretending love, my bed was empty. The nurse simply said.
“She was discharged early.”
They had no idea I had already signed documents, shut down accounts, and arranged a private transfer for Lucinda and me. They did not know we were already miles away.
And they had no idea I left them nothing. As the plane took off, I understood that vanishing was only the first move.
The real storm was still ahead.
We leave,” I said quietly. “Before sunrise. No arguments.”
And that is exactly what we did.
By dawn I had signed discharge papers. A private ambulance transferred me to a small clinic outside the city. From there a driver took us directly to a private airfield. Our children returned to the hospital later that morning with flowers and rehearsed grief. My bed was empty. A nurse simply said I had been discharged early for private care.
They never saw us again that day. They never imagined we were already thousands of miles away.
When the plane lifted above the clouds, I closed my eyes. My heart felt heavy, yet a strange clarity settled in. The betrayal was real. The escape was real. The storm ahead was unknown.
We landed in Valparaíso on the coast of Chile. I had once told Lucinda I wanted to see the ocean there before I died. I never expected it would become our refuge instead of our farewell. The air smelled of salt and sunlight. Colorful houses clung to hillsides like stubborn hope.
We rented a small apartment with a balcony overlooking the harbor. Fishing boats rocked gently below. The city moved slowly, as if it had no interest in our past.
But freedom did not erase shock. Lucinda woke from nightmares each night. I spent hours on legal documents. I revoked every power of attorney. I changed beneficiaries. I moved funds into accounts unknown to our children. Every signature reminded me of what had broken.
One afternoon Lucinda watched me struggle to pour coffee with a trembling hand.
“Do you think they ever loved us,” she asked quietly.
I had no answer. We had attended school events. We had paid tuition. We had stayed up through fevers and heartbreaks. We had done what parents do. And still they chose greed over gratitude.
To distract ourselves we walked the steep streets. Vendors sold fresh fruit. Old men played chess in plazas. Strangers greeted us with kindness. The world felt large again, yet the wound inside remained.
One night my phone lit up with a familiar number. Bianca. Lucinda froze across the room.
