I Took My Daughter-in-Law’s Broken Phone for Repair. The Technician Whispered: “Cancel Your Cards and Run.”

I took my daughter-in-law’s broken cellphone to get it repaired, but the technician who worked on it called me over and whispered,
“Cancel your cards, change all your passwords, and leave immediately.”

When I asked him what was going on, he turned the phone toward me—and what he showed me made my blood run cold.

My name is Teresa. I am 65 years old, and until three days ago, I believed I was living a perfectly normal life.

I live in a comfortable home in Guadalajara with my husband Ricardo, 67. We are both recently retired.
I was a history teacher, and he was an engineer.

We have one son—Alejandro, who has been married for five years to Sofía.

I always believed my daughter-in-law was an admirable woman: educated, intelligent, beautiful, and working at a financial consulting firm. Alejandro met her at a friend’s party, and within less than a year, they were married.

Sometimes Sofía seemed distant, but I assumed it was due to work stress or her reserved personality.

Everything began last Wednesday.

Sofía came to our house alone—unusual, because she and Alejandro usually visited together on weekends. She looked anxious and said she was having trouble with her phone. The screen was broken, and she needed it urgently because she had an important meeting the next day.

“Alejandro is traveling,” she explained. “I don’t know where to take it.”

By coincidence, I had taken my own phone to be repaired the week before at a small shop downtown. The owner, Jesús, whom everyone called Chui, was the son of a former colleague of mine from the school where I taught.

I offered to take her phone.

“That would be perfect, Teresa,” Sofía said, handing it to me.
“The password is 2800218—our wedding anniversary. Can I pick it up tonight?”

I agreed and went straight to Chui’s shop.

The shop was small, wedged between a pharmacy and a bakery, with a modest sign reading Express Repairs. When I entered, Chui was leaning over a counter covered with tools and dismantled electronics.

“Doña Teresa! It’s an honor to see you again,” he said with a smile.

I explained the situation, and he assured me it would be ready in a few hours.

“I’ll come back after lunch,” I said.

But when I returned around 4:00 PM, everything changed.

Chui was alone. When he saw me, his face transformed. Something I couldn’t understand at first crossed his expression.

Fear.

“Doña Teresa,” he said quietly, glancing toward the door to make sure no one else was there.
“The phone is ready… but there’s something you need to see.”

I frowned. “Is there a problem with the device?”

“No,” he said. “Not with the phone—with what’s inside it.”

He leaned closer and whispered:

“Cancel your cards. Change your passwords. And leave immediately.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“What are you talking about, Chui?”

He motioned for me to come closer, unlocked Sofía’s phone, opened the messaging app, and navigated to a folder titled Plan B.

He turned the screen toward me.

My blood froze.

These were messages exchanged between Sofía and my son Alejandro—detailing a plan to kill me.

“Mom is becoming more forgetful,” Alejandro wrote.
“This is the perfect time. The doctor is already documenting memory lapses at my request. No one will question it when it happens.”

Sofía’s reply made my stomach twist.

“Your father’s life insurance is almost two million. Once we sell the house, we’ll have enough to start over.”

My legs gave out, and I had to grab the counter to stay upright.

“This can’t be real,” I whispered—more to myself than to Chui.

He nodded grimly.
“I swear I didn’t mean to see it. While testing the phone, a notification popped up. I couldn’t ignore it.”

The messages went on—methods, dates, how to make it look like a household accident. They discussed medications, lethal doses for a woman my age with high blood pressure.

My own son. Planning my death.

“And Ricardo,” I whispered. “They’re planning to kill Ricardo too.”

The messages detailed how they would eliminate my husband weeks later—so the deaths wouldn’t raise suspicion.

Chui locked the shop door and handed me a glass of water.

“You need to go to the police,” he said gently but firmly.

I shook my head, still in shock.

“They won’t believe me. I’m just a forgetful old woman against my respectable son and daughter-in-law.”

“You need evidence,” he replied. “And you need to protect yourself.”

He was right.

With trembling hands, I photographed every message—dates, times, plans, even references to manipulating our family doctor into creating a false dementia record.

I asked Chui to restore the phone exactly as it was.

“I don’t want them to know we found anything.”

He agreed.

When I left the shop, Guadalajara’s gray sky felt darker than ever.

How could I go home?
How could I look at Ricardo knowing our own son planned our deaths?

At home, Ricardo sat watching the news, unaware.

“Was Sofía’s phone fixed?” he asked casually.

“Yes,” I said—but my voice shook.

I sat beside him.

“Ricardo… I need to show you something.”

As he read the messages, confusion turned to disbelief… then terror… then a pain so deep I thought it would destroy him.

“There must be a mistake,” he whispered.

“I wish there were,” I said, holding his trembling hands.

From that moment on, we knew this was a life-or-death game.

And we had to survive.