My Mother's Last Letter A Daughter's Revenge on Her Billionaire Father

I'd never seen her so focused.

Each stitch was tight and precise, like she was performing some kind of ritual. When she reached the last button, she paused. With the tip of her scissors, she carefully pried open a corner of the lining.

Inside was a silver recording pen. Old, well-worn.

Mom held it in her palm and pressed it against her cheek.

Then she tucked it into the turtleneck of her sweater.

"Lori," she whispered, "Grandpa's last words are right here."

Dad came home early that night.

He walked straight to Mom, his expression off.

"Were you in my study?"

Mom was arranging flowers. Her hand flinched.

A rose thorn pierced her fingertip. A bead of blood welled up.

"No." Her voice was barely there.

Dad stared at her turtleneck for a few seconds.

Then he grabbed her collar and yanked.

Mom stumbled backward. The recording pen clattered onto the floor.

"What is this?" He snatched it up.

The color drained from her face. She lunged for it.

Dad raised his arm high and slammed it into the ground. The pen shattered, pieces skittering across the tile.

"Trying to keep evidence?" He ground his heel into the largest fragment. "The old man's dead and still causing trouble!"

Mom sank to her knees and began picking up the plastic shards, one by one.

She didn't cry. But her shoulders shook violently.

Dad stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

I crouched down to help her.

She suddenly seized my wrist—hard.

"It's okay." Her eyes were bright, frighteningly bright. "Mom saw this coming."

She fished a tiny memory card from her pocket.

"The real backup is right here."

She slid it into the hidden compartment of my pencil case.

"Keep it safe for me."

That night, Mom sat on the edge of the bed and hummed.

It was the song Grandpa used to sing to her.

The melody drifted, soft and weightless, through the dark.

The next day, Dad brought a woman home.

She was young. She walked through the living room in Mom's slippers.

Mom was in the kitchen, shelling beans.

The woman sauntered to the kitchen doorway.

"Hey, sis," she said with a smile. "Like the bracelet?"

She lifted her wrist. A jade bangle gleamed—vivid, deep green.

It was my grandmother's.

The beans spilled from Mom's hands.

She straightened slowly, her gaze locked on the bracelet.

"Take it off."

That was all Mom said.

The woman ducked behind Dad.

He draped an arm around her shoulders.

"Letting her wear it is a compliment to you," he told Mom. "Don't be ungrateful."

Mom said nothing.

She walked into the bathroom and filled a basin with cold water.

Then she walked straight up to the woman and poured it over her head.

The woman shrieked.

"My bracelet!" She clawed at it, trying to pull it off.

The jade bangle caught on the bone of her wrist. It wouldn't budge.

Mom laughed.

"Seems like it knows its owner."

Dad's hand cracked across her face.

Blood seeped from the corner of Mom's mouth. She was still smiling.

"Go ahead," she said. "Hit me louder. Let the neighbors hear exactly what kind of man you are."

Dad's hand froze in midair.

His eyes darted to the window. He lowered his voice.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Yes," Mom said, wiping the blood away. "I should've lost it a long time ago."

The woman fled in the chaos.

The bracelet was still stuck on her wrist.

Mom stared at the empty doorway.

"She'll be back."

Sure enough, the doorbell rang in the middle of the night.

Vivian stood there, mascara streaked down her cheeks, tears ruining what was left of her makeup.

"The bracelet won't come off... it's swollen."

Mom opened the door and let her in.

"I told you," she said, her voice flat and even. "It knows its owner."

At the hospital, the doctor shook his head.

"The only option is to break it off."

The jade bangle cracked into pieces.

Vivian gasped, sucking air through her teeth against the pain.