I pulled her into a hug. “But you did,” I said. “That’s what matters. You trusted your instincts. You spoke even though you were scared.”
Sophie’s voice was small. “I thought you wouldn’t believe me.”
“I did,” I said firmly. “And I always will.”
Slowly, life began rebuilding in strange, uneven pieces.
I changed locks. I updated insurance. I met with lawyers about my will, not because Margaret’s questions had been wrong in principle, but because she’d turned planning into predation. I shifted everything into a trust that protected Catherine and Sophie, and I put safeguards in place so no one person could access everything alone.
Catherine insisted I get a full medical workup. The doctors found what we suspected: digoxin levels elevated from repeated exposure, enough to cause symptoms but not enough to kill quickly. My heart had been weakened. My body had been slowly pushed toward a cliff.
The cardiologist looked at me with quiet anger. “If it had continued,” he said, “you would have had an event.”
“A heart attack?” I asked.
He nodded. “Or worse.”
I left that appointment shaky, realizing how close I’d come to dying in my own bed while the person beside me watched and waited.