On a gray Thursday afternoon, the rain fell over the city without stopping, a relentless curtain of water that seemed intent on drowning the world. I was in my small kitchen, stirring a pot of stew that was boiling hard, the warm scent of corn and pork filling the air. I smiled, thinking about the comforting dinner that awaited us. My daughter, Valerie, had promised to stop by if her husband, Richard, didn’t have to work late. I always longed for those moments, when the two of us could just sit and talk like we used to, back when she was a little girl who would cling to my side, begging for one more story.
The old radio on the kitchen shelf broadcast the news with its constant, familiar hum. Suddenly, the phone vibrated. An unknown number from St. Phillip’s Hospital flashed on the screen. My heart skipped a beat. I answered, and a young woman’s nervous voice came from the other side. “Mrs. Elizabeth Miller? Your daughter, Valerie Miller, has just been brought to the emergency room. You should come immediately.”
I froze. The knife I was holding fell from my hand, its blade hitting the wooden table with a dry, final clack. “Emergency? What happened to my daughter?” I asked, my voice breaking.
From the other side, the answer came curtly. “She fell down the stairs at her house.”
Without thinking, I turned off the stove, leaving the stew to its fate. I grabbed the old coat hanging behind the door, my hands trembling so hard I could barely grasp the car keys. The fifteen-minute drive to the hospital felt like an eternity. Rain beat against the windshield, blurring the world into a nightmare of slick roads and screaming sirens in my own head. When I arrived, soaked and breathless, the old guard at the entrance recognized me immediately. “Mrs. Elizabeth, come in quickly,” he said, rushing me down the emergency room hallway.
The smell of alcohol and disinfectant was so strong it made me dizzy. A gurney passed in front of me, and I gasped when I saw Valerie lying there. Her long, black hair was matted, stained with blood. Her face was pale, lifeless.
“Valerie!” I shouted and ran after her, but a nurse stopped me. “You can’t go in. They’re taking her to the operating room.”
I stood in front of the heavy doors, my legs about to give out, feeling my heart break into a million pieces. My daughter, the little girl I had held in my arms since she was born, was now somewhere between life and death.
Hours later, a young nurse finally called my name. “Miss Valerie has woken up, but she is still very weak. You can go in to see her.”
In the intensive care unit, Valerie was motionless, a fragile figure surrounded by a web of tubes and wires. The fluorescent light fell on her pale face, her dry, cracked lips, the ugly bruises spreading across her neck like a dark shadow. Seeing her like that, I felt my heart tear apart. This was my daughter, the girl I had spent sleepless nights caring for when she was sick, the one I taught to draw her first clumsy pictures.
I took her cold hand and whispered, “Valerie, it’s me, Mom.”
Her eyelids fluttered before slowly opening. Her tired eyes shone when she saw me. “Mom,” she rasped, her voice weak, as if it were going to fade into the air. She squeezed my hand gently, her cold fingers making me shiver.
“Mom, he cheated on me,” she murmured, her voice choked, as if she were afraid someone would hear her.
“Who, honey?” I asked, though a cold dread was already coiling in my stomach.
Valerie’s chapped lips tightened, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “Richard. With Chloe… his sister-in-law. In my own room.”
I felt the floor open up beneath my feet. Richard, the man I considered a son, the one to whom I had entrusted the most valuable thing in my life. Chloe, his sister-in-law, the one I knew from family dinners, always smiling, always so kind to my daughter.
Valerie continued, each word like a knife stabbing my chest. “When they saw me… he pushed me. I fell down the stairs. The last thing I remember was his laughter before everything went black.”
My mind was spinning. Pushed her. Laughed. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. A hot, violent rage surged within me, but I held it back, for Valerie’s sake. A nurse came in, gently telling me that I should let her rest. Before I left, Valerie gathered her strength to say one last sentence, her voice weak, but full of a raw, primal terror.
“Mom… they said they’ll tell the police I fell on my own.”
I turned to look at my daughter, her eyes pleading, filled with a deep, profound fear. I put my hand on her forehead and whispered a promise that came from the very bottom of my soul, an oath before God. “Mom will get you justice.”
I went out into the hallway. The door closed behind me, and only the constant, rhythmic sound of the heart monitor remained. Beep… beep… beep. That sound was like the beat of the anger growing inside me. And then, at the end of the hallway, I saw him. Richard. He was wearing a black suit, talking calmly on the phone, a cup of coffee in his hand, as if nothing had happened. He was the one who had brought my daughter here and left right after signing the papers. The same one Valerie had just told me had pushed her down the stairs.
I stood there, watching him, my blood boiling. In my head, there was only one thought, cold and sharp as a razor. Nobody hurts my daughter and gets to walk away so calmly.
My mind reeled back to the days before everything fell apart, searching for the signs I had missed. That spring, I remembered the night Valerie and Richard came to our home to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary. Richard arrived with a bottle of expensive red wine and that smile of his that I always found hard to decipher. Throughout dinner, he complained about business trips and meetings that lasted until dawn. “Work has me up to my neck, mother-in-law,” he said, raising his wine glass, while his gaze slid towards Valerie. My daughter just smiled weakly. “Lately, he practically lives at the office, Mom.”
Her smile wasn’t the same. Her eyes, which used to sparkle when she talked about her paintings, were now covered by a shadow of sadness. I noticed Richard looking at his phone every now and then, turning it face down immediately each time the screen lit up. That night, he took a long call on the patio. When he returned, his shirt had some wrinkles, and I smelled a strange, sweet perfume—but not Valerie’s.
A week later, Valerie came to my house alone. “Mom, lately Richard comes home very late,” she said, her voice trembling. “He says he’s with partners, but one time I called the office, and the secretary told me he had left in the afternoon.” I wanted to hug her, to tell her everything would be okay, but I just patted her on the shoulder. “Busy men with their work are like that, honey. Don’t overthink it.” I blamed myself now for not asking more. I, a mother with six decades of life, should have recognized the signs. But I was afraid that if I dug too deep, I would only hurt my daughter more.
The following month, I decided to take a pot of mole sauce to Valerie’s house to surprise her. Richard’s car was parked outside, but Valerie said he was taking a shower. Suddenly, his phone rang on the table. The screen lit up with the name ‘Chloe.’ Valerie’s hand trembled as she answered. A sharp female voice sounded on the other end. “I left my bracelet on your bed. Don’t let Valerie see it, okay?”
I saw my daughter freeze, her face as pale as if all the blood had drained from it. She hung up quickly, stammering, “It must have been a wrong number, Mom.”
The next day, Richard appeared at my door with a bouquet of lilies and a box of pastries. “Mom, that was Chloe, my sister-in-law, who called yesterday,” he said, his voice kind and calm. “She asked me to help her with some things. She likes to joke like that. Don’t worry.” I smiled back, pretending to believe him, but deep down, a seed of doubt began to sprout.
All the signs were as clear as day: the times Richard looked at his cell phone, the strange perfume, Chloe’s shrill voice, the savings passbook he hid from her, the jacket in the closet Valerie found the morning of the incident. I saw it all, but I chose to ignore it. I chose to stay quiet. And now, my daughter was paying the price for my silence.
The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the air was still damp and heavy. I was no longer the desperate mother running in the rain. I walked into the hospital with a tight but firm heart. I knew I had to stay calm to face whatever came.
In the lobby, I saw Richard standing impeccably in his gray suit, holding a bouquet of white lilies. He was talking to Dr. Evans in a confident, serene tone, like an exemplary, worried husband. When he saw me, he hurried over, his face adopting a perfectly rehearsed expression of concern. “Mom, I’m going crazy with worry,” he said, his voice trembling falsely. “I couldn’t sleep all night.”
I looked into his eyes, searching for a bit of sincerity, but I only found emptiness. His words were soft, but his gaze was cold, as if he were acting out a play he already knew by heart.
“You left the hospital quite early last night,” I said, my voice calm but cold. “Where did you go?”
“The police needed me to sign the report at the scene of the accident,” he answered immediately, without hesitation. “Then I had to go home to get some things for Valerie.” I noticed his hands—short, clean nails without a single scratch, even though he claimed he had held his wife as she fell.
Just then, Mrs. Stella, Richard’s mother, appeared. She entered elegantly, wearing a black silk dress and a brilliant pearl necklace. She hugged me and whispered, her voice full of intention, “Poor Richard, he’s so upset, Elizabeth. Your daughter is so clumsy.”
Her words were like a stab, sharp but wrapped in honey. I held back, didn’t respond. Clumsy. My Valerie, intelligent, careful, a winner of a painting award in school. Clumsy. It wasn’t the time to fight. Not yet.
Around nine in the morning, two plainclothes inspectors arrived. Richard quickly went out to greet them. I watched him from a distance as he ran his hand through his hair over and over again, a typical gesture of his when he was nervous. When the inspectors left, one of them looked at me and said, “Ma’am, this was an accident. There are no signs of a crime.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Have you taken my daughter’s statement yet?”
“She’s still weak,” he replied. “When she fully recovers, we’ll be back.”
I nodded, although inside I knew they had already been convinced by Richard’s lies. When the police left, Richard turned to me and said in a soft voice, “Luckily, they understood the situation. I don’t want the press to make a scandal.”
I went out into the hallway and called Mrs. Linda, my trusted neighbor. Her voice trembled on the other end of the phone. “I saw Chloe’s car parked in front of your daughter’s house that afternoon,” she said. “Around one, I heard a scream, then a loud thud. A little while later, I saw Richard’s car speed away.” Her words confirmed everything Valerie had said.
When I returned to the hallway, I saw Richard talking on the phone in a low but clear voice. “It’s okay. Everything is under control. Don’t come, Chloe.” I stopped at the corner, pretending to look out the window, but paying attention to every word. “She doesn’t suspect anything. Just keep quiet for a few days, and everything will be fine.”
I took out my phone without making a sound and took a picture. Richard standing there with that cold, calculating look, holding the phone as if he were drawing up a perfect plan. He thought he could hide everything, but he underestimated a mother willing to do anything to protect her daughter.
Three days after Valerie was hospitalized, I decided to go to her house. The spare key was still in my old purse, cold and heavy, like the doubts I carried inside. At the foot of the spiral staircase where Valerie had fallen, I saw several pieces of glass shining in the faint light. Nearby, some dried blood stains looked like my daughter’s tears trapped on the wooden floor. I took out my cell phone and took pictures of every detail.
In the bedroom, the strong, sweet scent of Chloe’s vanilla perfume hung in the air. On the dresser, I saw the elegant bottle. My heart was beating fast as I opened the drawer and found an old envelope. Inside was a hotel bill from the San Pedro Hotel in the name of Richard Miller and Chloe Vargas, dated less than a month ago. I stood motionless, clutching the envelope as if it were the definitive proof to convict them.
As I was leaving the house, I ran into Mr. Alfred Thompson, the elderly neighbor who had been a policeman before retiring. He was watering the plants in his garden, his gaze sharp and knowing. I took a deep breath and decided to tell him the truth. “I’m looking for answers about my daughter’s accident.”
Mr. Thompson looked at me for a long moment and then nodded, motioning for me to come inside. He poured me a cup of hot coffee. “That day,” he began, “around 12:40, I saw Chloe’s car parked in front of your daughter’s house. About an hour later, I heard a loud scream and then a very heavy thud. Five minutes later, I saw Richard run out with Valerie in his arms, put her in the car, and speed away.”
My heart pounded. “Do you have security cameras at your house?” I asked immediately.
He nodded. “Of course. To watch over the neighborhood. I haven’t erased the recordings. Do you want to see them?”
We sat in front of his old computer. The video appeared on the screen, just as he had said. Chloe’s silver SUV was parked in front of Valerie’s house. At 1:12, the front door opened, and a woman with brown hair hurried out, buttoning her coat, looking from side to side as if afraid of being seen. It was Chloe, without a doubt.
I clenched my fists, feeling the blood boil inside me. I asked Mr. Thompson to copy the video to a USB drive. He did so without asking any questions. Before I left, he took my hand and said in a serious voice, “I was a policeman for thirty years, Elizabeth. I recognize the look of a guilty person. That Richard guy is not innocent.”
His words were like a ray of light in the darkness, giving me the strength I needed. That afternoon, as I was leaving the church, my phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number. Don’t keep digging, ma’am. There are some things it’s better not to know. That message didn’t scare me. On the contrary, it gave me more strength. They think that because I’m old, I’m weak, easy to intimidate? They forget that age not only brings wrinkles, but also patience and a sharp memory.
The next morning, I arrived at St. Phillip’s Hospital. Richard still hadn’t shown up. Valerie was more awake now, her eyes clearer. I sat by her bed, gently stroking her hair. “Do you still remember what happened that day?” I asked, my voice soft but careful.
Valerie nodded slowly, her lips trembling. “I heard Chloe’s laugh, Mom. She said, ‘Quick, before she comes back.’ And then I saw them… in my room.” Her voice broke, as if the memory were still cutting her inside.
That afternoon, I met with Carl Reynolds, the private investigator Mr. Thompson had recommended. He was a man with short hair, a neat figure, and a sharp gaze. He got straight to the point. “You just want me to confirm the locations and routines of these two people?” I nodded and gave him the USB drive. “They are people with money and connections,” he said in a serious voice. “I need very clear evidence.”
“Do your job,” I replied. “I will pay all the expenses.”
Two days later, Carl’s message arrived. Chloe goes to Richard’s house every Tuesday and Friday afternoon. She stays for more than an hour. I have photos. I opened the files he had sent me, and my heart raced as I saw the photo of Chloe leaving Richard’s house with a bottle of red wine in her hand, her hair tied back loosely, wearing a man’s shirt hastily thrown on.
That afternoon, Richard called with his usual sweet and fake voice. “Mom, I went to the hospital to see Valerie today, but the nurse said she was tired.”
“You should rest,” I replied, my voice calm but cold. “I’ll go later. You take care of your things.”
I hung up, gripping the phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Today, I was not going to sit around. I drove straight to Richard’s house. I bought a bouquet of white lilies at a flower stand to blend in. In my coat pocket, my phone was already recording.
He opened the door with a poorly acted expression of surprise. The house was suspiciously clean, the smell of air freshener trying to cover up the smell of alcohol and perfume. On the sofa, a long brown hair shone in the light. On the table, a half-drunk glass of wine with a dark red lipstick mark on the rim.
I decided to start my own play. “My daughter said that before she fell, she heard a woman’s voice inside the house,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Do you know who came that day?”
Richard tensed. “Nobody came. Valerie must have imagined it. She’s been very stressed lately.”
“So stressed that she would fall down the stairs on her own?”
He let out a nervous laugh. “Sometimes women lose their balance.”
“Are you completely sure that there was no one else in the house that day?” I asked, my voice as cold as ice.
“No,” he answered sharply. “Absolutely no one.”
But just then, the back door moved slightly. I turned and saw Chloe standing there with a glass of wine in her hand, her hair down, wearing a white man’s shirt with the buttons badly buttoned. The air in the room froze.
Chloe smiled awkwardly. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Elizabeth. I just came to comfort Richard. We’re both very tired.”
I stood up, looked her up and down, my voice calm but sharp. “Comforting him… in this way?”
Richard hurried to get in between. “Mom, don’t misunderstand. We were just talking.”
I didn’t answer. I took the bouquet of lilies that was on the table, took out the hidden phone from among the flowers, and activated the speaker. Carl’s voice sounded clear on the recording. “Chloe Vargas left Richard Miller’s house at 6:45 after being inside for an hour and a half.”
They both froze. Chloe’s face turned pale. Richard took a step back, stammering, “Mom, what are you doing?”
I pressed the next audio. Richard’s voice from the call at the hospital echoed in the room. “Don’t come, Chloe.”
He stood rigid, his eyes filled with fear. Chloe’s hand trembled. The glass fell to the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces. The red wine spread like a pool of blood.
“Justice doesn’t need police,” I said slowly, my voice firm and cutting. “Just a mother’s memory.”
Two days later, I returned to St. Phillip’s Hospital with a new determination. The doctor agreed to let Valerie leave the hospital soon to rest at my home. That afternoon, I called Mrs. Stella, Richard’s mother. My voice sounded calm, as if I were just inviting her to a regular family dinner. “This Friday night, I want to invite your family to dinner at my house. We’ll pray together for Valerie.”
After a few seconds of silence, she accepted, also saying that she would bring Chloe. I smiled into the phone, but inside me, a plan had already taken shape.
I spent the entire next morning preparing the dinner of destiny. I cooked mole sauce, Valerie’s favorite dish. I wrapped tamales in fragrant corn husks. I cleaned the long wooden dining table and placed a flawless white lace tablecloth. I lit small candles and put an image of the Virgin Mary in the center as a silent witness.
At six in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. Richard entered, elegant in his black suit, his smile polite but unable to hide the tension in his eyes. Mrs. Stella walked beside him, her face betraying a clear uneasiness. Chloe was behind them, in a tight white dress, the heavy smell of her elegant vanilla perfume filling the room.
When everyone was seated around the table, I poured the wine. “Before we eat,” I said in a low voice, “I want to show you a video that the neighbors sent me, so we can watch it together and pray that the truth comes to light.”
Richard frowned. “What video, Mom?”
I didn’t answer. I just turned on the television and connected Mr. Thompson’s USB. The blurry image appeared on the screen. In front of Valerie’s house, Chloe’s silver SUV was parked. Then her silhouette was seen leaving in a hurry.
Mrs. Stella’s face turned pale. “That’s your car, isn’t it?” she asked Chloe, her voice trembling.
Chloe tried to smile. “I just… I just stopped by to visit Valerie for a moment.”
I didn’t let her continue. I switched to the second clip. Richard’s voice on the hospital recording sounded icy. “Don’t come, Chloe. She’s already starting to suspect.”
Richard jumped to his feet, his face flushed. “Mom, did you record me?”
“You don’t need to record,” I answered calmly. “You said it yourself. I just put it on so everyone could hear it.”
Chloe’s hand trembled. The glass on the table fell, and the wine spilled onto the white lace tablecloth like a bloodstain. Mrs. Stella exclaimed furiously, “My God, what the hell have you two done?”
Richard tried to justify himself. “It was a misunderstanding! Valerie was jealous! She fell on her own!”
“She fell on her own?” I asked, my voice sharp. “And that’s why she has fractures and a cracked head? She fell on her own, and that’s why her wrists are full of bruises, as if someone had held her tightly?”
He opened his mouth but couldn’t say anything. Just then, the bedroom door opened. Valerie appeared, leaning on a crutch, her face pale but her gaze firm. She looked directly at Richard and Chloe and spoke in a low but clear voice. “Do you remember, Richard? When you pushed me, you said I shouldn’t have come back so soon.”
The air in the room became thick. Richard took a step back, his face as white as a sheet. Chloe lowered her head, her hands trembling. Mrs. Stella broke down, crying, covering her face as if she couldn’t bear the truth.
The front door burst open. Mr. Thompson entered with two police officers. One of them was Inspector Olsen, the same one who had told me before that there were no signs of a crime. Mr. Thompson handed him the USB. “Now they’re our inspector,” he said in a grave voice.
The man quickly reviewed the video, his gaze cold. He motioned to his partner and turned to Richard. “Mr. Miller, please come with us. We need to clarify some things.”
When Richard was taken to the patrol car, the red and blue lights flashed on the silent walls of my house. I stood at the door, watching his shadow disappear into the darkness. Mr. Thompson stood beside me and sighed. “You did what the police should have done a long time ago.”
“I just did what a mother has to do,” I replied calmly.
Valerie came closer, leaning on her crutches, and hugged me tightly. Her body was still trembling, but her hug was warm, as if she wanted to tell me that she finally felt safe.
Three months after Richard was arrested, the rainy season in the city had ended. Valerie, now fully recovered, reopened her art workshop for disabled children. One morning, while watering the white roses in the front garden, the radio gave a brief news report. “Former bank director Richard Miller has been sentenced to twelve years in prison for intentional injury.”
I turned off the radio and sat in silence on the wooden chair, listening only to the wind passing through the trees. I felt a deep peace—not of victory, but because finally, justice had arrived for my daughter.
That night, I opened my old diary and wrote the last line. Day 120 after the accident. The rain has stopped. Justice has done its job. Valerie sleeps in peace. I closed the notebook, turned off the light, and went out onto the porch. The old cat was sleeping, curled up on the railing, and the scent of roses floated in the night breeze. In the distance, the bells of St. Hope’s Church rang nine times, each one like a prayer for tranquility. I whispered into the quiet night, “No one touches my daughter and sleeps peacefully afterward.” A gentle breeze passed over the roof, bringing with it the smell of damp earth after the rain. My shadow stretched across the wall, silent but firm, like the spirit of all the mothers who have ever stood up for their children.
