My Mother's Last Letter A Daughter's Revenge on Her Billionaire FatherChapter 1
When my mother pushed open the hospital room door, my father had already half-pulled the oxygen tube from its port.
Grandpa Abbott's hands were skeletal, but his grip on my mother's wrist was iron. "Lori... don't fight him."
Grandma Abbott's clouded eyes fixed on my mother, her lips trembling. "You can't beat him... just go."
My mother was shaking all over. Tears fell onto the white sheets.
She didn't make a sound. She just nodded, over and over.
She'd spent her whole life nodding.
Nodding at the perfume that came home on my father's collar.
Nodding at the assets he siphoned away.
And now—nodding at her parents' death.
My father stood by the window, adjusting his cufflinks.
"The lawyer's coming this afternoon," he said, his tone flat. "Both patients have voluntarily declined further treatment. The paperwork needs your signature."
I grabbed my mother's ice-cold hand.
She lifted her tear-streaked face and shook her head at me once.
But in her eyes, I saw something catch fire.
...
I squeezed her hand tighter.
Then she let go.
She wiped her tears, walked over to my father, and stood before him.
"Where are the documents?" Her voice was even. "I'll sign."
My father blinked.
He hadn't expected her to comply so easily.
"Good to see you've come around." He pulled the papers from his briefcase.
My mother didn't even glance at them. She signed.
Her handwriting was steady.
My father smiled, satisfied.
He reached out to drape an arm around her shoulders.
But she beat him to it—slipping her arm through his, leaning into him.
"It's stuffy in here," she said. "Let's talk outside."
He looked even more surprised, but clearly pleased.
He liked it when she took the initiative.
"Sure."
He nodded, then gestured toward the door. "Have someone take the girl home first."
My mother looked at me.
"Be good," she said softly. "Wait for me downstairs."
She gave me a gentle push out of the room.
In the instant before the door closed, I caught a glimpse of her face turning toward my father.
She was still holding his arm. There was even a faint smile on her lips.
But her eyes—her eyes were brimming with tears that threatened to spill at any second.
The door clicked shut.
I stood in the corridor and heard my mother's voice, muffled through the wall: "Whatever you say."
My father's laughter drifted out, low and pleased.