A Mother's Calculated Revenge

It's been twenty-three days since my daughter Shirley Steward passed. I moved the bouquet of white chrysanthemums from the balcony to the living room windowsill; the petals hadn't completely withered yet. As my fingertips brushed the petals, I suddenly remembered her saying last autumn that she wanted to learn flower arranging and promised to fill the house with flowers every day. My daughter's husband, Zachary Lincoln, sat on the living room sofa, both his left and right legs in plaster casts. He clenched a medical report in his hand, his thumb repeatedly rubbing the words "bilateral comminuted fractures of the lower limbs," the corners of the paper crumpled from being handled. The TV was still on, a reporter holding a microphone close to the camera, voice sharp and deliberate: "The Most Dutiful Son-In-Law of our time, who borrowed from usurers to pay his mother-in-law's medical bills, broke both legs yet never abandoned her!" I walked over from the kitchen carrying a cup of warm water. The bottom of the cup lightly tapped the coffee table, reminding him to look up. When he raised his eyes, I saw the red veins in them, and the tear stains at the corner that hadn't been wiped away. I couldn't tell if he was really crying or just pretending. "Mom, please sit down too," he said, trying to scoot over, but the plaster cast was stuck in the sofa gap. "Don't worry. Now that Shirley is gone, I will take good care of you for the rest of my life." I didn't respond to his words, just pushed the cup a little closer to him. The water wobbled but didn't spill. He spoke again, his voice softer: "Yesterday I even dreamed of Shirley. She told me not to upset you and said your life has been far from easy." My heart skipped a beat, my fingers clenched the edge of my clothes, but my face showed no sign of it. Turning to walk into the bedroom, my foot touched the pink slippers Shirley had worn when she was alive, still placed neatly by the bed. I opened the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, where a red envelope lay beneath Shirley's sweater. There were five million dollars inside the envelope, the insurance payout from the insurance company for Shirley's accidental death—along with the card and paperwork, all kept neatly. The mobile phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket, the screen flashing the name "Miles Anderson," making my eyes dizzy. I answered the call. Miles' voice, thick with alcohol, was more impatient than before: "Auntie, what's your answer? I'm stuck in a bar with my friends. I can't keep borrowing money, can I?" Holding the phone, I walked into the living room, deliberately standing where Zachary could hear clearly: "I'll transfer it now, five million dollars, not a penny less. Stop rushing me." The cup in Zachary's hand crashed to the floor with a clang, warm water spilling everywhere and splashing onto his plaster cast. He hurriedly bent down to pick up the cup, but the plaster cast struck the leg of the coffee table with a dull thud. He immediately frowned, as if in pain. "Mom!" His eyes filled with disbelief as he looked up, his voice trembling, "How could you give all of Shirley's insurance payout to that loafer?" Miles overheard this on the phone and immediately shouted, "Who's the loafer? Auntie, I'm conducting business! Zachary, stop stirring up trouble!" Zachary ignored Miles on the phone and just stared at me, bracing his hands on the sofa as he tried to stand up. "He's just a drunkard and gambler! That money was paid for with Shirley's life!" I gave him a cold glance and said into the phone, "Don't waste your breath on him. I'll transfer it to you now, just remember to check your messages." After hanging up, Zachary kept pressing, his voice tinged with pleading: "Mom, are you losing your mind? If Shirley knew you were doing this, she wouldn't feel peaceful even she died!" Suddenly, a "click" sound came from outside the window. I peeked through the curtain slit and saw a reporter holding a camera, aiming the lens directly at the living room. It seemed Zachary heard it too; he immediately put on a look of grievance and slowly got up, using his cane for support. He had just straightened up halfway when his foot suddenly slipped, and he fell to the ground. The plaster cast hit the floor with a heavy "bang." He hissed, supporting himself with his hands on the ground, but didn't get up right away. Instead, he buried his head in his arms, his shoulders trembling slightly. I saw him secretly lift his head, quickly glance at the reporters outside the window, then hurriedly bury it again, deliberately sniffing. The reporters' camera flashes went off, one after another. A reporter whispered to a companion outside the window, "After all that, he still has her back. He is really good." I stood aside, hands clasped behind my back, expressionless as I watched Zachary on the floor. Only one thought raced through my mind: Shirley, I am watching him play his part—I will make sure justice will be done for you.