At first, my mind tried to resist, offering excuses: “maybe it’s spasms, maybe the recording is distorted, maybe I misunderstood what was happening.” But the further I scrolled through the archive, the clearer the picture became. Before me was not a sick, helpless person, but a woman consciously and cold-bloodedly playing the victim. In one recording, her fingers slowly clenched into a fist, then relaxed. Then she cautiously turned her head, as if checking if anyone was watching her. This gesture was too meaningful, too precise for a person considered completely paralyzed.
I felt a chill run down my spine because I knew that look too well—it was exactly how she used to look at me when she pretended to wish me well. I continued watching, no longer able to stop, and the recordings seemed to arrange themselves into a chain, revealing the truth layer by layer. There she is, slowly rising from the chair, holding onto the armrests, unsteadily, as if deliberately feigning weakness even in an empty room. Then she takes a few steps, listens, walks to the closet, and opens it with the habitual confidence of a person who knows their way around the space perfectly.
At that moment, my breath caught. I realized: she knew the apartment, knew where everything was, knew when I left and how much time she had. I saw her taking out my things, rummaging through documents, stumbling upon letters, reading them with a crooked sneer, as if enjoying someone else’s secrets. And then carefully returning everything to its place, leaving a barely noticeable trace of disorder, which she later used as a pretext to accuse me of absent-mindedness or lying.
But the scariest part wasn’t that, but how deftly she managed the situation without entering into direct conflict with me. In one recording, she was sitting in the chair when my husband entered the room. Her body instantly went limp, her gaze became glassy, her lips parted slightly. I realized with horror that she had been honing this role for years—the role of a helpless mother whom one cannot suspect, cannot judge, cannot help but pity. I saw him lean toward her, speak to her quietly and affectionately, and she responded by barely blinking, and that was enough for him to believe in her suffering.
Then there was a recording that made my heart clench and rage flare up simultaneously: she was talking on the phone. Her voice was calm, confident, without the slightest hint of weakness, and every word hit exactly on target. She spoke about how I was unstable, that I couldn’t be trusted, that I demanded too much, that the apartment must remain “in the family.” I suddenly remembered all the conversations with my husband over the past weeks, his strange phrases, his doubts, his coldness—all of it wasn’t his thoughts, but her words, implanted in his head while I was at work or at the store. I watched her smile during the conversation, and that smile was not joyful, but triumphant. She was enjoying that her plan was working, that she was controlling our lives again without raising her voice or stepping out of the victim role…
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