She can see him when I say she can see him. She’s not taking over my son the way she tried to take over you. Take over him.
I’d raised him. Loved him. Sacrificed everything for his future.
If that was taking over, then what was Freya doing now? She’s lonely, Freya. Maybe if you could just just what?
Let her come back. Let her undermine everything I’m trying to build here. Her voice turned icy.
Your mother is a bitter old woman who can’t accept that her time is over. The sooner you realize that, the better. Bitter old woman.
I stood frozen on the sidewalk, listening to my son’s wife poison him against me with words I’d never forget. Maybe you’re right, Brent said finally, and my heart shattered. That night, I sat in my small apartment and made a decision.
I’d spent two months feeling sorry for myself, playing the role of the discarded mother. But I’d forgotten something important about myself. I was Tyson Murphy’s wife, the woman who’d worked three jobs to put her son through college, the woman who’d held her family together through illness, financial struggles, and loss.
I wasn’t a victim. I was a survivor. And it was time Freya learned the difference.
I reached for my phone and dialed a number I’d memorized but never used. Henderson Private Investigations. A professional voice answered.
Yes, I said, my voice steady for the first time in months. I’d like to hire an investigator. Marcus Henderson looked exactly like I’d imagined a private investigator would look.
Tired eyes, weathered face, the kind of man who’d seen enough of life’s ugliness to not be surprised by anything. His office was small and cluttered, but something about his calm professionalism put me at ease.
“Mrs. Murphy,” he said, pouring coffee from a pot that had seen better days. “What can I do for you?”
I’d rehearsed this conversation, but sitting there, I felt suddenly foolish. “I want you to investigate my daughter-in-law.” He didn’t even blink.
Any particular reason? She’s spending money that doesn’t exist. At least money that shouldn’t exist based on what I know about their finances. Marcus pulled out a legal pad.
Tell me everything. So, I did. I told him about Brent’s salary, about the BMW, about the shopping sprees and designer clothes.
I told him about being thrown out of my own son’s house and cut off from my grandson. I told him about the woman who’d married my son and systematically destroyed everything I’d built when I finished. Marcus was quiet for a long moment.
Mrs. Murphy, I have to ask. Is this about getting back at your daughter-in-law, or is this about protecting your son?
The question caught me off guard. I I want to protect Brent, but I also want to understand what’s happening because in my experience, when someone suddenly has money they shouldn’t have, it usually comes from one of three places. Family money they haven’t disclosed, illegal activity, or someone else.
Someone else. The words hung in the air like a challenge. What do you mean?
I mean, maybe your daughter-in-law has a benefactor. Someone who’s not your son. The possibility hadn’t occurred to me.