The hospital called to tell me my daughter had been rushed to the emergency room. I ran over there and found her barely conscious. “Mom,” she whispered, her voice choked with pain, “he cheated on me… with my sister-in-law. In my own house. When they saw me, he pushed me down the stairs.”

The motherly instinct in me woke up. Nobody has the right to hurt my daughter and live to tell the tale.

***

On Thursday afternoon, the sky over the city was gray, the rain falling as if it wanted to drown the world. I was in my small kitchen, stirring a pot of stew, thinking about the warm dinner that awaited us. My daughter, Valerie, had promised to stop by. I always long for those moments when we can talk like we used to, when she was a little girl who would cling to me to tell her stories.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated. An unknown number from St. Phillip’s Hospital. My heart skipped a beat.

A nervous voice came from the other side. “Mrs. Elizabeth Miller? Your daughter, Valerie Miller, has just been brought to the emergency room. You should come immediately.”

I froze. The knife fell from my hand. “Emergency? What happened to my daughter?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“She fell down the stairs at her house,” was the curt reply.

I turned off the stove, grabbed my coat, and ran out into the rain. The drive to the hospital, normally fifteen minutes, felt like an eternity. When I arrived, soaked and trembling, a guard rushed me down the emergency room hallway. The smell of alcohol and disinfectant was dizzying.

A gurney passed in front of me. I gasped when I saw Valerie. Her long black hair was matted with blood, her face pale and lifeless. “Valerie!” I shouted, but a nurse stopped me. “You can’t go in. They’re taking her to the operating room.”

I stood there, my legs about to give out, as a doctor’s firm voice cut through the chaos. “Intracranial hematoma, fracture in the left forearm. Prepare for the CT scan.”

Dr. Evans came out, his face serious. “Your daughter was very lucky to survive,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Who brought her here?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“A man who said he was her husband. He left right after signing the papers.”

*Richard.* The name crossed my mind like a blast of cold air.

Hours later, a nurse finally called my name. “Miss Valerie has woken up. You can go in.”

In the intensive care unit, Valerie was motionless, surrounded by tubes and wires. I took her cold hand and whispered, “Valerie, it’s me, Mom.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. “Mom,” she rasped, her voice weak. She squeezed my hand, her cold fingers making me shiver. “Mom, he cheated on me,” she murmured, her voice choked with fear. “With Chloe, his sister-in-law. In my room.”

The floor felt like it was opening up beneath my feet. Richard, the man I considered a son. Chloe, the woman who was always so kind to my daughter.

Valerie continued, each word a knife in my chest. “When they saw me, he pushed me. I fell down the stairs. The last thing I remember was his laughter before everything went black.”

My mind spun. Rage surged within me, but I held it back. A nurse came in, gently telling me I should let her rest. As I was leaving, Valerie gathered her strength. “Mom,” she whispered, her voice full of terror, “they said they’ll tell the police I fell on my own.”

I put my hand on her forehead. “Don’t worry,” I promised, my voice an oath. “Mom will get you justice.”

***

The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy. I returned to the hospital to find Richard standing in the lobby, impeccable in a gray suit, holding a bouquet of white lilies. He was talking to Dr. Evans, the picture of an exemplary husband.

When he saw me, he rushed over, his face a mask of rehearsed concern. “Mom, I’m going crazy with worry,” he said, his voice falsely trembling.

I looked into his eyes and found only emptiness. “You left quite early last night,” I said, my voice cold. “Where did you go?”

“The police needed me to sign the report at the scene,” he answered without hesitation. “Then I had to go home to get some things for Valerie.”

Just then, Mrs. Stella, Richard’s mother, appeared, elegant in a black silk dress and a brilliant pearl necklace. She hugged me and whispered, “Poor Richard, he’s so upset, Elizabeth. Your daughter is so clumsy.”

Her words were like a stab, sharp but wrapped in honey. I held back my fury. It wasn’t time yet.

Two plainclothes inspectors arrived. Richard quickly went out to greet them, speaking in a low, hurried voice. When they left, one of them looked at me and said, “Ma’am, this was an accident. There are no signs of a crime.”

As they walked away, I caught the half-smile that fleetingly appeared on Richard’s lips. He turned to me, his voice soft. “Luckily, they understood the situation. I don’t want the press to make a scandal.”

“No one talked about the press,” I replied coldly. “I just want to know the truth.”

***

Three days later, Richard was gone, with the excuse of an urgent meeting in Mexico City. I decided to go to Valerie’s house. The spare key felt cold and heavy in my hand. Inside, a blast of cold air hit me. The house reeked of alcohol and a cheap, sweet perfume. On the dining table were several half-drunk wine glasses, one stained with red lipstick.

At the foot of the spiral staircase, I saw dried blood stains, like my daughter’s tears trapped on the wooden floor. I knelt, touching the blood with trembling hands. “Valerie, forgive me,” I whispered. I took out my phone and took pictures of every detail.

As I was leaving, I ran into Mr. Thompson, the elderly neighbor who was a retired policeman. “What are you looking for, Elizabeth?” he asked, his gaze sharp.

I told him the truth. He nodded, inviting me in. “That day,” he said, “I saw Chloe’s car parked in front of your daughter’s house. About an hour later, I heard a loud scream, then a heavy thud. Five minutes later, I saw Richard run out with Valerie in his arms and speed away.”

“Do you have security cameras?” I asked immediately.

He did. The video showed Chloe’s car parked outside. At 1:12 PM, the front door opened, and a woman with brown hair hurried out. It was Chloe, without a doubt. I asked Mr. Thompson to copy the video to a USB drive. As he handed it to me, he said, “I was a policeman for thirty years, Elizabeth. I recognize the look of a guilty person. That Richard guy is not innocent.”

***

That night, my phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number: *Don’t keep digging, ma’am. There are some things it’s better not to know.*

The message didn’t scare me. It gave me more strength. They thought that because I was old, I was weak. They forgot that age not only brings wrinkles but also patience and a sharp memory.

The next day, I hired a private investigator. His instructions were simple: confirm the locations and routines of Richard and Chloe. Two days later, his message arrived, sharp as a knife: *Chloe goes to Richard’s house every Tuesday and Friday afternoon. She stays for more than an hour. I have photos.*

I drove to Richard’s house, a bouquet of lilies in hand to blend in, my phone already recording in my pocket. He opened the door, a poorly acted expression of surprise on his face. “Mom, I was just thinking of going to see you.”

I smiled. “I just came to get something for Valerie.”

The house was suspiciously clean, the smell of air freshener failing to cover the scent of alcohol and perfume. On the sofa, a long brown hair shone in the light. I walked towards the bedroom, saying aloud, “I’ll just grab some clothes for Valerie.”

Richard leaned against the door, his arms crossed, watching my every move. “What are you looking for, Mom?” he asked, his tone tense.

I pointed to a black silk scarf on the chair. “Whose is this?”

“It’s Mom’s,” he answered immediately. “She must have forgotten it.”

I sat in a chair, opened my purse, and checked my phone. The recorder was still running. “My daughter said that before she fell, she heard a woman’s voice inside the house,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Do you know who came that day?”

Richard tensed. “Nobody came. Valerie must have imagined it. She’s been very stressed.”

“So stressed,” I said slowly, “that she would fall down the stairs on her own?”

Just then, the back door moved slightly. I turned and saw Chloe standing there, a glass of wine in her hand, wearing a man’s white shirt, the buttons badly fastened.

The air in the room froze. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Elizabeth,” Chloe said with an awkward smile. “I just came to comfort Richard.”

I stood up, my voice calm but sharp. “Comforting him in this way?”

Richard hurried to get between us. “Mom, don’t misunderstand. We were just talking.”

I didn’t answer. I took the bouquet of lilies, pulled out the hidden phone, and activated the speaker. A recording of the private investigator’s voice filled the room. “*Chloe Vargas left Richard Miller’s house at 6:45 PM after being inside for an hour and a half.*”

They both froze. Chloe’s face turned pale. Richard took a step back, stammering, “Mom, what are you doing?”

I pressed the next audio—Richard’s voice from the call at the hospital. “*Don’t come, Chloe.*”

Chloe’s hand trembled. The glass fell to the floor and shattered. The red wine spread like a pool of blood.

“Justice doesn’t need police,” I said slowly, my voice firm and cutting. “Just a mother’s memory.”

***

That Friday night, I invited Richard’s family to dinner. When they were all seated, I poured the wine. “Before we eat,” I said, “I want to show you a video.”

I turned on the television and connected the USB. The blurry image of Chloe fleeing Valerie’s house appeared on the screen. Mrs. Stella’s face turned pale.

I switched to the second clip—Richard’s voice on the hospital recording. “*Don’t come, Chloe. She’s already starting to suspect.*”

Richard jumped to his feet, his face flushed. “Mom, did you record me?”

Just then, the bedroom door opened. Valerie appeared, leaning on a crutch, her gaze firm. She looked directly at Richard and Chloe. “Do you remember, Richard?” she said, her voice low but clear. “When you pushed me, you said I shouldn’t have come back so soon.”

The front door burst open. Mr. Thompson entered with two police officers. “Now they’re yours, inspector,” he said, handing him the USB.

Richard shouted, his voice filled with panic. “I didn’t do anything wrong! Mom, tell them the truth!”

I approached the table, took the spilled wine glass, and placed it back in front of him. “This dinner is not for forgiveness,” I said softly. “It’s for closure.”

***

Three months later, the rainy season had ended. I was living with Valerie, who had reopened her art workshop for disabled children. One morning, the radio gave a brief news report: “Former bank director Richard Miller has been sentenced to 12 years in prison for intentional injury.”

I turned off the radio and sat in silence, a deep peace settling over me. That evening, as fireworks exploded over the city, I stood next to my daughter, feeling that all the pain had finally come full circle. I had done what a mother has to do. No one touches my daughter and sleeps peacefully afterward.