I thought it was a cruel joke.

At my husband’s funeral, I received a text message from an unknown number: ‘I’m still alive. Don’t trust children.’ I thought it was a cruel joke…

 

There, beside the freshly turned earth that was about to swallow forty-two years of my life, my phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number sent a cold chill through my grieving soul.

I’m alive. I’m not the one in the coffin.

My world, already shattered, crumbled to dust. My hands trembled so violently I could barely write a reply.
Who are you?

I sighed at the reply that came:
I can’t say. They’re watching me. Don’t trust our children.

My eyes fell upon Charles and Henry, my own sons, who stood beside the coffin with expressions of an eerie, silent calm. Their tears seemed forced, their embraces as cold as the November wind. Something was profoundly wrong. In that moment, my world shattered: the life I thought I had and the horrifying truth that was only just beginning to reveal itself.

For forty-two years, Ernest was my refuge. We met in the small town of Spring Creek, two poor young men with modest dreams. He had grease-stained hands and a shy smile that I instantly fell in love with. We built a life in a two-room house with a tin roof that leaked when it rained, but we were happy. Something money couldn’t buy: true love.

When our sons were born, first Charles and then Henry, I felt like my heart was going to burst. Ernest was a wonderful father: he taught them to fish and fix things, and he told them stories before bed. We were a close family… or so I thought.

As they grew older, a distance began to form. Charles, ambitious and restless, rejected Ernest’s offer to work in his bicycle repair shop.
“I don’t want to get my hands dirty like you, Dad,” he said, words that were a small but sharp wound in my husband’s heart.

They both went to the city, made a fortune in real estate, and little by little, the children we raised were replaced by rich strangers.

Visits became infrequent; their luxury cars and elegant suits contrasted sharply with our simple life. They regarded our house—the house where they had taken their first steps—with a mixture of pity and shame. Charles’s wife, Jasmine, a woman sculpted from the city’s hardships, barely concealed her disdain for our world. Family Sundays became a distant memory, replaced by discussions about investments and subtle pressure to sell our house.

“Jasmine and I will need help with expenses when we have children,” Charles said during an awkward dinner. “If you sell the house, that money could be an early inheritance.”

He was demanding his inheritance while we were still alive.
“Son,” Ernest said, his voice calm but firm, “when your mother and I are gone, everything we own will be yours. While we’re alive, the decisions are ours.”

That night, Ernest looked at me with a concern I’d never seen before.
“Something’s wrong, Margot. It’s not just ambition. There’s something darker behind all this.”
I didn’t know how right he was.

The “accident” happened on a Tuesday morning. The call came from Memorial Hospital.
Your husband has been in a serious accident. You must come immediately.

My neighbor had to take me; I was shaking too much to hold the keys.
When I arrived, Charles and Henry were already there. Despite my hopes, I didn’t ask how they had gotten there before me.
“Mother,” Charles said, hugging me with practiced strength, “Father is sick. One of the machines exploded in the workshop.”

In the ICU, Ernest was almost unrecognizable, hooked up to dozens of machines, his face covered in bandages. I took his hand. For a moment, I felt a faint pressure. He was fighting. My warrior was fighting to come back to me.

The next three days were hell. Charles and Henry seemed more interested in talking to the doctors about insurance policies than in comforting their father.
“Mom,” Charles said, “we checked Dad’s insurance. He has a life insurance policy for $150,000.”

Why was he talking about money while his father was struggling to survive?

On the third day, the doctors told us his condition was critical.
“It’s very unlikely he’ll regain consciousness,” they said.
My world collapsed.
Charles, however, saw a “practical problem.”
“Mom, Dad wouldn’t want to live like this. He always said he didn’t want to be a burden.”

A burden? My husband, his father, a burden?

That night, alone in his room, I felt his fingers moving, squeezing mine; his lips tried to form words that wouldn’t come out. I called the nurses, but when they arrived, they didn’t see him.
“Involuntary muscle spasms,” they said.
But I knew. He was trying to tell me something. Two days later, he was gone.

The funeral arrangements were a blur, organized with chilling efficiency by my children. They chose the simplest coffin, the shortest service, as if they wanted to be done as quickly as possible.
And now, standing by his grave, I held the phone containing an impossible message:
Don’t trust our children.

That night, in our quiet, empty house, I went to Ernest’s old wooden desk. I found the insurance policies. The main one had been updated six months earlier, increasing the coverage from $10,000 to $150,000. Why did Ernest do that? He never mentioned it. Then I found something even more disturbing: a $50,000 workers’ compensation policy in case of accidental death on the job. A total of $200,000. A tempting fortune for someone without scruples.

My phone vibrated again.
Check the bank account. See who’s receiving the money.

The next day at the bank, the manager—who had known us for decades—showed me the statements. In the last three months, thousands of dollars had been withdrawn from our savings.
“Your husband came in person,” he explained. “He said he needed the money to fix up the shop. I think one of your sons went with him once or twice. Charles, I believe.”

Charles.
But Ernest could see perfectly well with his glasses.

That afternoon another message arrived:
The insurance was their idea. They convinced Ernest that you needed more protection. It was a trap.

I could no longer deny the evidence: the increased insurance coverage, the unauthorized withdrawals, Charles’s presence.
But murder? My own children? The thought was a monster I couldn’t bear.

The messages kept guiding me.
Go to Ernest’s workshop. Look at his desk.

I expected to find a scene of destruction after an explosion. Instead, the workshop was strangely clean. Every machine in its place, untouched. There were no signs of an explosion. On his desk, I found a note, written in his handwriting, dated three days before his death:

“Charles insists I need more insurance. He says it’s because of Margot. But something isn’t right.”

And then, a sealed envelope with my name on it. A letter from my husband.

My dear Margot,
it has begun. If you are reading this, it means something has happened to me. Charles and Henry are far too interested in our money. Yesterday, Charles told me I should be worried about my safety, that at my age any accident could be fatal. It sounded like a threat. If anything happens to me, don’t trust anyone.
Not even our children.

Ernest sensed his own impending death.
He saw the signs that I, blinded by a mother’s love, refused to see. That night, Charles came to visit me, feigning concern.

—Mom, the insurance money… is already being processed. It will be two hundred thousand dollars.

“How do you know the exact amount?” I asked, in a dangerously calm voice.

“Well, I helped Dad with the paperwork,” she lied weakly. “I wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

Then she launched into a rehearsed speech about how they would “manage” my money, how I should move to a nursing home. Their father’s death wasn’t enough for them; they were planning to steal everything I had left.

The final piece of the puzzle arrived with another message:
Tomorrow, go to the police station. Ask for Ernest’s accident report. There are contradictions.

At the police station, Sergeant O’Connell, who had known Ernest for years, looked at me with puzzlement.
“What accident, Mrs. Hayes? We have no report of an explosion at your husband’s workshop.” He picked up a file. “Your husband arrived at the hospital unconscious, with symptoms of poisoning. Methanol.”

Poisoning.  It wasn’t an accident. It was murder.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me anything?” I whispered.

—The immediate family members who signed the hospital documents —their children— requested that the information be kept confidential.

They hid the truth.  They faked the explosion. They had planned everything.

The following days were a terrifying game of chess. They came to my house together, their faces covered with masks of feigned concern, accusing me of being paranoid, of hallucinating because of the grief. They brought cakes and coffee, but the mysterious sender had warned me:
Don’t eat or drink anything they offer you. They also plan to poison you.

“Mom,” Charles said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, “we spoke to a doctor. He thinks you’re suffering from senile paranoia. We thought it would be best if you moved to a place with specialized care.”

That was their complete plan, laid bare before me: to declare me incapable, lock me up, and keep everything for themselves.

That night I received the longest message.
Margot, this is Steven Callahan, private investigator. Ernest hired me three weeks before he died. He was poisoned with methanol in his coffee. I have audio evidence that they planned everything. Tomorrow, at 3 p.m., go to the Corner Café. Sit at the table in the back. I’ll be there.

In the cafeteria, a friendly man in his fifties approached my table. It was Steven. He opened a folder and played a small voice recorder. First, Ernest’s voice, worried, explaining his suspicions. Then, my children’s voices, cold and clear, plotting their father’s murder.

“The old man is starting to get suspicious,” said Charles’s voice. “I’ve got the methanol. The symptoms will look like a stroke. Mother won’t be a problem. When he dies, she’ll be empty and we can do whatever we want with her.”

Then, another recording:
“When we get Dad’s insurance money, we’ll have to get rid of Mom too,” Charles said. “We can make it look like suicide by depression. A widow who can’t live without her husband. Everything will be ours.”

She was trembling uncontrollably. Not only had they murdered her father, but they were also planning to kill her. All for money.

Steven had more evidence: photos of Charles buying methanol, financial records showing huge debts. They were desperate. That night we went to the police.

Sergeant O’Connell listened to the recordings; his face grew darker with each passing second.
“This is awful,” he murmured.
The arrest warrant was issued immediately.

At dawn, police cars descended on my sons’ luxurious homes. They were arrested, charged with first-degree murder and conspiracy. Charles denied everything until the recordings were played. Then he broke down. Henry tried to flee.

The trial was quite an event. The courtroom was packed. I walked to the witness stand, my legs trembling but my mind clear.

“I raised them with love,” I told the jury, looking directly at my children. “I sacrificed everything. I never thought that love would be the cause of their own father’s murder.”

The recordings were played in court. A murmur of horror rippled through the room as the jury heard how my children plotted my murder. The verdict was swift:  guilty on all counts. Life imprisonment.

When I heard the judge’s sentence, I felt an enormous weight lift from my shoulders. Justice. Finally, justice for Ernest.

After the trial, I donated the blood-stained insurance money to a foundation for victims of family crimes.

A week later, I received a letter. It was from Charles.

Mom, I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m sorry. Money, debt… they blinded us. We destroyed the best family in the world for two hundred thousand dollars we didn’t even get to enjoy. Tomorrow I’m going to end my life in my cell. I can’t live with what we did.

He was found dead the next day. When Henry learned of his brother’s death, he suffered a complete breakdown and was transferred to the prison’s psychiatric hospital.

My life is quiet now. I’ve turned Ernest’s workshop into a garden, where I plant flowers to take to his grave every Sunday. Steven has become a good friend.

Sometimes people ask me if I miss my children. I miss the children they were, but those children died before Ernest. The people they became were strangers.

Justice didn’t bring my husband back, but it gave me peace.
And on quiet nights, when I sit on the porch, I swear I feel his presence, proud that I had the strength to do the right thing, even though it meant losing my children forever.