During my husband’s funeral, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: “I’m alive. Beware of the children.” At first, I assumed it was some cruel prank.

At the café the next day, Steven played recordings—Ernest’s voice first, anxious and fearful.

Then my sons’ voices, cold as stone.

“The old man suspects something,” Charles said. “I’ve got the methanol. It’ll look like a stroke. Mom will be easy to deal with afterward.”

Another recording:

“When we get the insurance, we’ll take care of Mom too. A su:icide from grief. Everything will be ours.”

My whole body shook. They hadn’t just k*lled him—they planned to kill me.

We took the evidence to the police immediately. Sergeant O’Connell, furious and horrified, issued arrest warrants at once.

At dawn, officers stormed their homes. Charles denied everything until the recordings played. Henry tried to run.

The trial drew crowds. The courtroom was bursting.

On the witness stand, I said, my voice trembling:

“I raised them with love. I never imagined that love would lead them to murder their father.”

The recordings sealed their fate. Guilty on all charges. Life imprisonment.

When the judge delivered the sentence, a great weight lifted. Justice—for Ernest at last.

I donated the insurance money to a charity for victims of family crimes.

A week later, a letter arrived. From Charles.

Mom, I don’t deserve forgiveness. Debt and greed twisted us. We killed Dad for money we never even touched. I can’t bear this. Tomorrow I’ll end my life.

He was found d3ad the next day. Henry suffered a breakdown and was moved to a psychiatric facility.

Life is quiet now. Ernest’s workshop has become a garden. I bring flowers to his grave every Sunday. Steven has become a loyal friend.

People ask if I miss my children. I miss the boys they used to be.