She was the kind of influencer who smiled sweetly but calculated everything. Beautiful, polished, always filming, always talking about brands and luxury. The first time she came to dinner, she didn’t look at me—she studied my paintings, my dishes, my chandelier, my jewelry.
“What a stunning apartment, Mrs. Margaret,” she said, scanning the room. “It must be worth a fortune. Have you ever thought about selling it and moving somewhere more appropriate for your age?”
I smiled and said no.
But the idea stuck with Daniel.
After that, the pressure started.
“Mom, let me help you manage your finances.”
“Mom, sign this power of attorney so I can handle paperwork for you.”
“Mom, you should simplify your assets.”
I pretended not to notice. Until six months before that call, when I got pneumonia and spent ten days in the hospital. I was weak, medicated, feverish. Daniel visited every day, attentive and kind. One day, he handed me some documents.
“Mom, it’s just for insurance. Sign here.”
I trusted him.
I signed.