and she also had no idea that the small voice recorder was capturing every venomous word she uttered.
Her breath fanned my cheek, hot and acrid with the smell of cheap coffee from the hospital’s vending machine, as if she was injecting all her impatience and contempt into me.
She might think I was immobile, paralyzed, so doped up that I was no longer a person. But she was wrong. I was fully awake. Lying beneath the thin blanket of the Bergamo hospital, I felt every heartbeat, every muscle in my body taut like a thread about to snap.
My hand, hidden under the blanket, rested on the cold voice recorder—the thing I had turned on the moment I heard her step into the room with Marco. “Marco, he’s nothing more than a vegetable,” Chiara said louder, perhaps moving toward the window. “The doctor made it clear. He won’t get better. What’s the point of keeping him here?” I heard my son’s heavy sigh.
Marco. The only son I had devoted my entire life to nurturing. — Chiara… she’s still my mother. Marco spoke softly, his voice trembling like a string pulled to its limit. — And I’m your wife! — Chiara retorted, cold and sharp as a knife — I’ve endured more than enough.
I want a normal life, in a proper house, not that damp hovel. Seventy years of life… that’s more than enough for her. I kept my breathing steady, each breath feeling like a knife cutting through my heart. I couldn’t cry anymore. Everything inside me was now just ashes and something else:
The cold, clear-headed awareness of someone who had understood the truth too well. Chiara continued, her voice returning to its calculating, cold tone: — The broker said the market is great. Selling the three-room apartment in the center will give us a huge amount. Then we can buy a small house outside Milan, and get a new car.
Marco, open your eyes! This is our golden opportunity! Marco remained silent. That terrible silence… it wasn’t a protest. It was cowardly agreement. “And his belongings…” Chiara continued, as if listing things for disposal. “Just throw away half of it. It’s all useless stuff.
Those weird tea sets, the pile of old books… Only keep the valuable things that can be sold. I’ll call an expert.” I felt the corner of my mouth curl slightly. An expert, huh. She had no idea what I had quietly done before entering the hospital. All the truly precious things—every single item—I had moved them out last week.
To a place they could never touch. The documents too. They are there, safe… Waiting for the truth to be unleashed.
The door of the hospital room closed as Chiara and Marco left. Their footsteps faded away, like the sound of hammering on my own coffin lid. I waited a few minutes—one, two, five—until there was only the steady beeping of the monitor. Then, I opened my eyes. Not hazy, but the lucidity of someone who has clearly seen the true nature of those they love. I turned off the voice recorder—a soft “click” that sounded like the locking of fate in my heart. No trembling, no anger, only a chilling clarity: the day I return will not be what they expect.
The next day, the doctor was astonished to see me awake. — I… when did you wake up? — Since last night. He didn’t know I hadn’t just woken up, but that I had changed. When he asked if he should notify my family, I gave a dry laugh: — No need. When can I be discharged? — If you continue to improve, in two days. Two days to prepare. That evening, I requested my personal bag. Amidst the clothes was a bundle of documents: my passport, the transfer contract, the safe deposit box key, and a copy of the new will—something no one knew about. I took the old will they were anticipating… and tore it to shreds. The wind blew the pieces of paper away like snow. — That’s enough.
That night, I heard the distant ambulance siren like a countdown clock. “When are you finally going to die?”—Chiara’s voice echoed in my mind. I smiled. I won’t die the way they want. And when I return, the house on Via XX Settembre will no longer belong to them. I have prepared everything. The voice recorder will be the first piece of evidence, cold, undeniable.
The day I leave the hospital will be the day the truth begins. And they still sleep soundly, unaware that the real nightmare… has just begun.
The morning of my discharge, the Bergamo sky was as gray as the ashes in my heart. The nurse wheeled me out to the entrance. I stood up slowly, more steadily than they thought. They imagined me to be a lonely, pathetic mother. I took a taxi straight to the old city center. The house on Via XX Settembre was still there, the stone steps, the familiar wooden door… this time, I approached it with a different purpose. I took out my phone and dialed a number.
— Pronto?
— I’ve been discharged.
— You want me to begin the proceedings?
— Yes. Everything.
— And… the recording?
— I will deliver it to you today. He hesitated:
— Are you sure? Once the petition is filed… there’s no turning back.
— I ran out of options long ago. I opened the front door. No lights, no noise. The smell of old wood, books, dampness, and also… the scent of betrayal rushed in. I sat in the armchair, calmly waiting for them to return. The ticking of the clock dragged on. The sound of a key turning. Chiara’s sharp voice:
— Marco, when the agent comes to see the house, don’t dawdle. This apartment will sell for a lot of money— The door swung open. They froze. Marco turned pale, Chiara went rigid. — Hello, both of you, — I said. I placed the voice recorder on the table, pressing the beep sound. Chiara flinched.
— I heard everything, — I said. — Every single sentence. Marco trembled:
— Mother… when did you wake up?
— The moment you started talking about… my death. I knew what I had to do. I handed them the sealed envelope from Lawyer Rossi. Chiara’s lips trembled:
— What… what is that?
— It’s the end, — I said. — But not mine. — Did you both think I only had the house? Did you think I was stupid enough to let them control me? I placed the envelope next to the voice recorder:
— This is the transfer of ownership document and the lawsuit petition. The police will hear the recording. My lawyer will hear it too. I walked towards the door:
— From today, the house no longer belongs to you two. And neither do I. The door closed, not just with a snap. But as a final period to a life of being exploited—and the beginning of my new life.
I walked out of the house on Via XX Settembre, slow but steady. No one followed, because in that room, between Chiara and Marco, they were no longer angry—they were afraid. Afraid that what they had just said had become evidence against them. That afternoon, I went to Lawyer Rossi’s office. He looked at me with a rare respect after many years. I placed the voice recorder on the table. When the segment of Chiara’s malicious words played, the room grew thick with tension. Rossi only said:
— There is no defense.
I nodded.
— I’m not seeking revenge. I just want them to pay the price. ** AT THE OLD HOUSE Marco sank down, while Chiara was deathly pale upon realizing there was a recording. They argued, blamed each other, desperately trying to deny it: claiming I was old, delusional. But Marco knew: this time, they couldn’t escape. That evening, both of them called me. I turned off my phone. Walking through the cold Bergamo piazza, for the first time, I felt light-hearted. Marco’s silence had hurt me more than all of Chiara’s words. But I also knew: silence has its price. A text message arrived:
“Mother, please don’t do this. I’m sorry.”
I locked the screen. The next morning, the lawyer reported: they had received the papers and were genuinely panicked. Chiara called the office 6 times in a row, trying to claim the recording was fake. But evidence cannot be denied. ** In the old house, Chiara was sobbing and tearing up the documents, while Marco just sat silently. Finally, they decided to come and beg me for forgiveness. That evening, they knocked on the door of my rental apartment. I opened the door just a crack. Chiara intended to stage a scene, but I looked her straight in the eye:
— I didn’t live for you to act. And I’m not dying for you to find peace. Marco trembled:
— It was just a slip of the tongue…
— A slip of the tongue doesn’t make people want to sell their mother’s house while she’s still alive. I handed them a piece of paper: the requirement to vacate the house.
— You must move out tomorrow. The house no longer belongs to you.
Chiara turned ashen.
— You’re kicking us out?
— No. You kicked me out of your heart a long time ago. I closed the door. ** Two weeks later, they were forced to leave Via XX Settembre, moving into a small rental outside Milan. Chiara cried hysterically, but the law was not on the side of the wicked. As for me, in a small, peaceful house, I finally began to truly live. A week later, Chiara received a notice that she was being prosecuted for insulting and threatening a sick person. I simply smiled: “Everything has its price.” The silent mother doesn’t punish with screams—
but with the truth. And that truth cost Chiara everything.