My Brother Called: “Mom Died Last Night. I Inherited Everything. You Get Nothing.” Then I Smiled…
I felt sick. So Mom’s dementia could be medication induced if she’s being overprescribed sedatives or antipsychotics.
It would explain the sudden cognitive decline and the vacant behavior. “That’s attempted murder! That’s—”
“That’s what we need to prove.”
Sarah said.
“I’m getting copies of her medical records, but that takes time. In the meantime, I’d suggest you visit your mother again. Document everything; record conversations with your brother if you can. Ontario’s a one-party consent province.”
That afternoon, I was back at Maple Grove. I’d brought my phone, ready to record anything suspicious.
But when I got to Mom’s room, it was empty. A nurse I didn’t recognize was changing the sheets.
“Where’s my mother?”
I asked, panic rising.
“Oh, Mr. Harrison, your brother took her out for a drive. He said she needed some air.”
My blood ran cold.
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
I ran to the parking lot, but Glenn’s black Mercedes was already gone. I tried calling him; no answer.
I called five times; nothing. Finally, three hours later, they returned.
Glenn helped Mom out of the car, supporting her as she shuffled back to her room. She looked exhausted and confused.
Glenn saw me waiting in the hallway. “Douglas,”
He said, not even bothering to hide his annoyance.
“What are you doing here?”
“You said Mom died yesterday. Yet here she is.”
He had the audacity to laugh. “Oh, that? Yeah, sorry about the confusion. I meant to call you back. False alarm. Mom had a bad episode yesterday, and I thought—well, you know these things happen with dementia.”
“Where did you take her today?”
“Just for a drive. She likes getting out.”
“Really? Because she looks like she can barely stand.”
“Back off, Douglas.”
His voice dropped and became harder. “I’m her power of attorney. I make the decisions about her care, not you. You want to challenge that? Get a lawyer.”
He brushed past me, helping Mom into her room. Through the doorway, I watched him settle her into her chair, speaking to her in a low voice I couldn’t hear.
Then he left, not even looking at me as he walked away. I was about to leave when my phone buzzed with an unknown number.
I almost ignored it, but something made me answer. “Hello?”
Silence, then a whisper, a woman’s voice, faint and scratchy. “Douglas?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Douglas, it’s me.”
The voice was so quiet I had to press the phone hard against my ear. “Who?”
“It’s your mother.”
I froze. That couldn’t be; Mom was right there in her room, and this call was coming from—I checked the screen—a blocked number.
“Douglas, listen carefully. I don’t have much time. I need you to come to my room tonight. Late, after 10:00. Make sure Glenn isn’t here. And Douglas, don’t tell anyone about this call.”
The line went dead. I stood in the parking lot, snow falling around me, staring at my phone like it had transformed into something alien.
That was impossible. Mom couldn’t have called me; she could barely string two words together.
And yet that voice, even whispered and strained, had sounded like her. It was the real her, the sharp, clear-minded woman I’d known my entire life.
I waited in my car until after 10:00 p.m., watching the nursing home.
The Midnight Revelation and the Final Resurrection
Glenn’s Mercedes was long gone. The night shift was on, just a skeleton crew.
I used my key code to enter through the side door and made my way to Mom’s room. She was sitting up in bed, the lights low.
When I entered, she turned to look at me, and in the dim light, I saw her eyes—clear, focused, completely lucid. “Close the door,”
She said in a normal voice.
It was not the confused mumble I’d heard for months; it was a normal, strong voice. I shut the door, my hands shaking.
“Mom, what—are you—are you okay? What’s happening?”
“Sit down, sweetheart. We need to talk, and we don’t have much time.”
I sat, completely stunned. My mother, who I’d thought was lost in the fog of dementia, smiled at me.
She actually smiled with that wry expression I remembered from childhood, like when she’d caught me and Glenn sneaking cookies before dinner. “I’m fine, Douglas. I’ve been fine this whole time.”
“But the dementia—the diagnosis? You couldn’t even recognize me.”
“Because I was pretending.”
The room seemed to tilt. “Pretending?”
She reached over and took my hand. Her grip was firm and steady, nothing like the weak, trembling hands I’d held for months.
“Douglas, I’m eighty-five years old. I’ve been thinking a lot about mortality, about what happens when I’m gone. And I realized I needed to know something. I needed to know which of my sons would actually take care of me—not for my money, not for inheritance, but because they loved me.”
“So you faked dementia to test us?”
“When Glenn suggested becoming my power of attorney, I saw an opportunity. I agreed, but I also consulted my own lawyer, someone Glenn doesn’t know about.”
“I put most of my assets in an irrevocable trust weeks before Glenn got the POA. The accounts he has access to—I only left enough in them to see what he’d do.”
I couldn’t process this. “Mom, that’s—why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes grew sad. “Because I had to test both of you. I had to see who would visit me when I couldn’t give them anything back, who would hold my hand even when I didn’t know their name.”
“And Douglas, you came three times a week. You sat with me. You talked to me, even when I acted like I had no idea who you were.”
Tears were running down my face now. “Of course I came! You’re my mother!”
“I know that now. But Glenn…”
She shook her head.
“Glenn failed, Douglas. Worse than I ever imagined. I’ve been documenting everything.”
“Every time he came to pressure me to sign papers, every time he got angry when I played confused, every time he took something from this room thinking I wouldn’t notice—I have it all recorded.”
“The $280,000 he took—he took it from the accounts I left accessible. I’ve been letting him dig his own grave.”
“Mom, he told me you were dead! He’s planning a funeral for Friday!”
She nodded. “I know. He told me today during our drive. He said I was going to have an ‘accident,’ that I’d pass away peacefully.”
“He wanted me to agree to sign papers first, transferring everything, but I refused. Played confused. He’s running out of time, and he knows it.”
“This is insane! This is dangerous! We need to call the police right now!”
“No, not yet. Robert Chen, your lawyer? He’s been my lawyer, too, for the past month.”
“We have a plan, but I need you to trust me, Douglas. Can you do that?”
I squeezed her hand. “Always.”
Over the next two days, we set everything up. Robert brought in the police, but quietly.
They agreed to let Mom’s plan play out to catch Glenn in the act with irrefutable evidence. We installed hidden cameras in Mom’s room—tiny things the size of a button.
We coordinated with the nursing home staff—those we could trust. Mom continued her act, playing the confused, declining patient whenever Glenn was around.
Glenn came twice more. Once to bring papers for Mom to sign—transfer documents for her house.
Mom scribbled something illegible and acted like she didn’t understand. Glenn’s frustration was visible, barely contained.
“Just sign clearly, Mom.”
He said through gritted teeth.
“I’m trying to help you.”
The second time, Thursday night, he brought a syringe.
I watched the video footage later, and it made me physically ill. He told Mom it was her medication, but we had it tested later; it was a massive dose of sedatives, enough to sedate a horse.
Mom pretended to take it but palmed the pills. “Tomorrow,”
Glenn said, smoothing her hair.
“Tomorrow you’ll finally be at peace, Mom. No more suffering.”
Friday morning came.
Glenn had booked Thornhill Funeral Home. He’d sent out notices and called relatives—cousins I hadn’t seen in years.
He called me, offering condolences. I played along. “Yes, the funeral was at 2:00 p.m. Yes, it was very sudden.”
The funeral home was packed. Glenn had gone all out—flowers everywhere and a large photo of Mom from twenty years ago at the front of the room.
