The food poisoning that hospitalized me at 16 from a meal only I had eaten. I had spent my entire life being near merely killed by my own mother. The police brought Priscilla and Celeste in for questioning. My father, it turned out, had been completely unaware of his wife’s schemes, a fact confirmed by his genuine devastation when confronted with the evidence.
He cooperated fully with investigators, providing bank records and email access that further incriminated my mother and sister. What emerged was a conspiracy that spanned decades. My mother had always resented my grandmother’s wealth and her clear preference for me. She had planned since my childhood to eventually have me removed and claimed the inheritance through Celeste.
The accident at 12 was meant to kill me outright. When it failed, she grew more patient, more cunning. She waited for my grandmother to die, for the inheritance to come through, for me to have a child who could serve as a more vulnerable target. Celeste, I learned, had known about the plan since she was 20.
