Chapter 4: The Perfect Performance
Living with Linda was like performing in a play every single day.
In the mornings, I would help her out of bed and into the bathroom. I would bathe her carefully, wash her hair, and dress her in clean clothes. I would make her breakfast and feed her if her hands were too weak that day.
Ryan would watch us sometimes and get emotional.
“You’re so patient with her,” he once said. “Most people wouldn’t do this.”
I would smile and say, “She’s family.”
But when we were alone, the mask came off.
I would lean close to Linda while giving her medicine and whisper:
“Do you remember pushing me that day in the kitchen? Do you remember the tea you made me drink? My baby is gone because of you. And now you’re going to die because of me.”
Her eyes would fill with terror.
Sometimes she would try to grab my wrist, but her grip was weak. Other times she would cry silently.
I never raised my voice. I never hit her. I never did anything that would leave obvious marks.
I was patient.
I wanted her to suffer for a long time.
Over the years, her condition worsened. She became bedridden. She lost control of her bladder. Her mind grew foggy. Doctors ran tests but couldn’t find anything conclusive. They said it was likely a combination of old age and an unknown degenerative condition.
Ryan cried when the doctors gave her a poor prognosis.
I held his hand and comforted him.
At night, while Linda lay helpless in her bed, I would sit beside her and talk to her in a soft voice.
“You’re going to die soon,” I would tell her. “And when you do, everyone will say how lucky you were to have such a devoted daughter-in-law. No one will ever know what you really were. A murderer. A monster who killed an innocent baby.”
She would stare at me with pure hatred and fear mixed together.
And I would smile.
Because this was exactly what I wanted.
I wanted her to know.
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I wanted her to understand that I was the one destroying her, just like she had destroyed me.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
