I Went To My Birthday Dinner And What I Saw Made Me Fake A Heart Attack…

 

My daughter smiled at me across the candlelight of her downtown Toronto penthouse, sliding a slice of homemade chocolate birthday cake toward my plate. It was my favorite dessert, a recipe passed down from my late wife, one that carried the warmth of memory and the sweetness of comfort. But as I leaned forward to take the first bite, the horrifying truth hit me like a thunderclap. That cake wasn’t just chocolate and sugar—it was laced with enough poison to kill a grizzly bear, let alone a 63-year-old man with a known heart condition. For a heartbeat, I froze, the fork trembling in my hand, my mind racing through decades of memory and calculation in mere seconds.

I did not scream. I did not push the table over. Instead, I reached under the tablecloth, my fingers brushing against my phone, and sent a coded text to my lawyer. Every movement was deliberate, every breath measured. My mind, sharpened over years of calculation and careful concealment, kicked into overdrive. My name is Robert Mitchell. I am 63, outwardly a retired electrician living modestly in Scarboro, in the very same two-bedroom house where I had raised my daughter. To the world, I was a simple man, one who wore flannel shirts from Costco and drove a 12-year-old Honda Civic. But those decades of running wires and fixing breaker panels had been a cover, a mask behind which I had quietly accumulated wealth and influence.

Every paycheck I earned was funneled into tech startups, ventures dismissed as reckless by colleagues and neighbors alike. I had taken risks, yes, but each calculated with precision and patience. Today, I own 40% of Northstar Technologies, a cybersecurity firm valued at over $200 million. And yet, none of this wealth had filtered into Emily’s life. I had kept it hidden to let her earn her own victories, to build character in a world that too often equated comfort with worth. I thought I was teaching her the meaning of effort. But looking at the cold, unsmiling face before me, at the greed and entitlement in her eyes and the venomous smugness of Marcus Carrington seated beside her, I realized I had underestimated what secrecy could foster: resentment, bitterness, and a hunger to take what was not theirs.

The nightmare had begun hours earlier. It was my birthday, March 15th, and the penthouse smelled like expensive perfume mixed with something sharper, something desperate. The heating was cranked unreasonably high, probably to mask the draft from the floor-to-ceiling windows that were more showpiece than functional. Emily sat at the head of the glass dining table, her posture rigid, her expression carefully neutral, her dark hair a stark echo of her mother’s. At 35, she carried herself like a woman who had long forgotten how to relax, how to laugh naturally, how to show warmth. Her eyes, once familiar and kind, now darted between me and Marcus with a cold calculation that made my stomach knot.

Marcus Carrington, her husband, sat beside her, impeccable in a designer suit, every hair in place, nails manicured, smile perfectly practiced but failing to reach his eyes. He had always regarded me with subtle contempt, the kind reserved for those he deemed beneath him, as if my years of labor, my steady hand, my quiet accumulation of wealth, were trivial beside his self-proclaimed intellect and success. Dinner had passed in a strained silence, broken only by comments dripping with condescension. Wagyu beef, dry and flavorless, had been served, and I could barely taste it, my mind caught on the discovery I had made earlier that week: $350,000 in credit card debt scattered across seven accounts, all traced back to them, hidden in the recycling bin.

When Emily handed me a small envelope, I thought perhaps this was her attempt to bridge the growing distance between us. Inside, however, was a Tim Hortons gift card for $50. Not the amount that stung, but the effort—or lack thereof. It was lazy, thoughtless, a last-minute grab from the checkout counter. Marcus snatched it before I could even acknowledge it, tearing the card from the envelope and letting out a harsh laugh.

“Seriously, Robert,” he sneered, tossing the card onto the table as if it were a soiled rag. “$50? What is this? We’re drowning in vendor payments for this condo renovation, and you give us coffee money? You could sell that Scarboro property, cash out the equity, move into a senior’s apartment. But no, you’d rather hoard it like some Depression-era miser.”

Emily’s voice was barely audible. “Marcus, it’s a generous gift.” But her whisper carried no conviction, no warmth. Marcus scoffed, pouring himself another glass of Bordeaux, the liquid catching the candlelight in crimson arcs. “Generous? It’s cheap. Just like that Civic rusting in visitor parking. Just like those boots. You sit on a paid-off house in a gentrifying neighborhood, dress like Value Village, and give us coffee money. Embarrassing. You’re embarrassing.”

A familiar tightness gripped my chest, though it was not angina. It was heartbreak. I searched my daughter’s face for a flicker of defense, for any acknowledgment of the years, the work, the sacrifices. But Emily remained silent, eyes fixed on her glass, sipping wine, avoiding me entirely. That was when the dizziness struck, sudden and sharp, a wave of nausea that made the marble floors tilt beneath my feet. The metallic taste of the appetizer lingered unpleasantly in my mouth, sharp and wrong, as though warning me to stay alert.

I clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white against the frosted glass, and tried to focus. “Are you okay, Dad?” Emily asked, her voice too tight, too practiced. “I just need some water,” I managed, forcing myself to rise. The scrape of my chair against marble sounded far too loud in the quiet, every step echoing ominously. “I need to clear my head,” I said, feeling the legs of my chair buckle under me like wet newspaper. Marcus’s tone shifted instantly, from derision to forced concern. “Sit down, Robert. I’ll get it for you. You look terrible. Rest.”

“No,” I forced out, legs unsteady. “I need to walk.” Each step toward the kitchen was a struggle, the hall lined with vacation photos of Emily and Marcus in locations they likely could not afford, Dubai, Santorini, Bali, all smiles and helicopters, none of me, none of Margaret, my late wife. Their home was a shrine to vanity and deception.

The kitchen door was ajar, and from inside came hushed, frantic whispers. Decades of working construction sites had trained me to recognize the danger in silence, the subtle signals of threat. I pressed my back to the wall, peering through the crack, and what I saw made my blood run ice-cold.

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My daughter smiled at me across the candle light of her downtown Toronto penthouse, sliding a slice of homemade chocolate birthday cake toward my plate. It was my favorite dessert, a recipe passed down from my late wife. But as she urged me to take the first bite, I realized something terrifying. That cake was laced with enough rat poison to kill a grizzly bear, let alone a 63-year-old man with a heart condition.

 I did not scream. I did not flip the table. Instead, I reached under the tablecloth, texted my lawyer with a coded message, and prepared to give the performance of a lifetime. My name is Robert Mitchell. I am 63 years old, and for the last 35 years, I have let the world believe I am just a retired electrician living on a modest pension.

 I drive a 12-year-old Honda Civic. I wear flannel shirts from Costco. I live in the same two-bedroom house in Scarboro where I raised my daughter. What nobody knows, not even my own flesh and blood, is that those decades of running wire and fixing breaker panels were just the beginning. I took every dollar of profit and invested in tech startups when everyone said I was crazy.

 Today, I own 40% of Northstar Technologies, a cyber security firm worth $200 million. But I kept it quiet. I wanted my daughter Emily to build her own character, not coast on my money. I thought I was teaching her value. Instead, it seems I only taught her resentment. Before I tell you how I dismantled their lives piece by piece, please let me know where you are watching from in the comments below.

 If you have ever been underestimated by the people who were supposed to love you, hit that like button and subscribe. Trust me, you are going to want to see how this ends. The nightmare began 4 hours earlier. It was my birthday, March 15th, and the air inside Emily’s $3 million penthouse was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and desperation.

 The heating was cranked up too high, likely because the floor toseeiling windows were drafty, windows they could not afford to fix, despite living in this architectural showpiece. My daughter Emily sat at the head of the glass dining table, looking like a woman who had forgotten how to smile naturally. At 35, she still had her mother’s dark hair, but her eyes had gone cold.

 They darted nervously between me and her husband, Marcus Carrington. Marcus sat beside her in a designer suit that probably cost more than my first car. He was a tech entrepreneur, or so he claimed, perfectly quoifed hair, manicured nails, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. He had always looked at me with a specific kind of contempt.

 The look of a man who thinks he married beneath himself and is reminded of it every time I show up in my work boots. We had just finished dinner. Wagu beef that tasted like cardboard because I could not stop thinking about the credit card statement I had found in their recycling bin last week when I helped take out the trash. $350,000 in debt across seven cards.

 Emily had handed me a small envelope. Inside was a Tim Horton’s gift card for $50. It was not the amount that hurt. It was the laziness of it. No thought, no effort, just a last minute grab from the checkout counter. Marcus had snatched it from my hands before I could even say thank you. He ripped it open, stared at the plastic card, and let out a sharp, ugly laugh.

 “Seriously, Robert,” he said, tossing the card onto the table like it was a used napkin. “50 bucks? What is this?” 1995. We are drowning in vendor payments for this condo renovation and you give us coffee money. You know what would actually help? If you sold that house. That Scarboro property is sitting on land worth at least a million and a half.

 You could downsize to a senior’s apartment and give us the equity. But no, you would rather hoard it like some depression era miser. Emily looked down at her wine glass. Marcus, it is a generous gift, she mumbled. But her voice was so quiet it barely registered. Generous? Marcus scoffed, pouring himself another glass of Bordeaux that cost more than my monthly grocery bill.

It is cheap. Just like that civic rusting in our visitor parking. Just like those boots. Robert, you are sitting on a paidoff house in a gentrifying neighborhood and you dress like you shop at Value Village. It is embarrassing. You are embarrassing. I sat there feeling the familiar tightness in my chest. It was not angina.

 It was heartbreak. I looked at my daughter, waiting for her to defend me, waiting for her to say, “Dad worked his whole life. Dad put me through university. Dad is a good man.” But Emily said nothing. She just refilled her own glass and avoided my eyes. That is when the dizziness hit me. It came fast and sharp, a wave of nausea that made the room spin.

 I had eaten a few bites of the beef carpacho Emily had served as an appetizer. It tasted strange, metallic, and bitter. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles going white against the frosted glass. “Are you okay, Dad?” Emily asked, her voice tight with something that was not concern. “I just need some water,” I managed to say, pushing my chair back.

 The scrape of the legs against the marble floor was loud and jarring. “I need to clear my head.” “Sit down, Robert,” Marcus said, his tone shifting from contemptuous to sickly sweet in an instant. “I will get it for you. You look terrible. Rest.” “No,” I said, forcing myself to stand. My legs felt like they were made of wet newspaper. “I need to walk.

” I stumbled toward the kitchen, using the wall for support. The hallway was lined with photos of Emily and Marcus on vacations I knew they could not afford. Dubai, Santorini, Bamp in a private helicopter. Not a single photo of me. Not a single photo of Margaret, my late wife. It was a shrine to their vanity and their lies.

I made my way toward the kitchen, intending to splash cold water on my face. The door was slightly a jar. As I approached, I heard voices hushed, frantic, urgent. I stopped. Decades of working in construction sites where silence could mean danger had trained me to move quietly when I needed to. I pressed my back against the wall just outside the door frame and peered through the crack.

 What I saw turned my blood to ice. Marcus was standing at the marble island. In front of him was the birthday cake, a massive three layer chocolate tower. Beside it was a small blue box, the kind you buy at hardware stores. Beside that was a mortar and pestle. I recognized the box immediately. It was rat poison, the industrial kind, the kind that came with warnings printed in three languages.

Marcus was grinding white pellets into a fine powder. His phone was propped against a coffee maker, the screen glowing. How much did you use? Emily’s voice came from behind him. She was standing by the sink, washing her hands compulsively, scrubbing them red. All of it,” Marcus hissed, dumping the powder into a bowl of chocolate frosting.

 He grabbed a spatula and began stirring it vigorously. The white disappeared into the dark brown, becoming invisible. The entire box. Google says an overdose causes organ failure within 12 hours. Heart, kidneys, liver, everything shuts down. What if it is too fast? Emily whispered, her voice cracking. What if the paramedics figure it out? Stop being a coward,” Marcus snapped, slamming the spatula down. “He is old.

 He has a heart condition. Nobody is going to question it when an overweight 63-year-old man has a heart attack after a heavy meal. We cry. We call 911. We say he complained of chest pains all night. It is airtight.” “But murder,” Marcus, Emily said. And the word hung in the air like a grenade. “He is my dad. He is an obstacle, Marcus said, turning to face her. His eyes were wild, manic.

 Do you want to lose this condo? Do you want the creditors to come after us? We need his life insurance. We need the equity in that house. And we need it now, not in 10 years when he finally dies naturally. This is mercy, Emily. We are putting him out of his misery and saving ourselves. Emily lowered her hands from the sink.

She looked at the cake. She looked at Marcus. Then she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, just make sure he eats all of it.” I felt vomit rise in my throat. My own daughter, the girl I had rocked to sleep every night after her mother died. The girl I had taught to ride a bike in High Park. She was not just complicit.

 She was a co-conspirator. The dizziness I had felt earlier vanished, replaced by cold crystallin clarity. The appetizer had been a test dose, a primer to make me weak and hungry. The main event was the cake. I backed away from the door, moving silently down the hallway. I retreated to the guest bathroom and locked the door.

 My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. I did not dial the police. Not yet. If I called them now, Emily and Marcus would claim I was confused, scenile. They would hide the poison, destroy the evidence. It would be my word against theirs. I needed undeniable proof. I needed a witness who could not be bought or silenced. I opened my encrypted messaging app and sent two texts.

 The first was to Detective Sarah Kim, a contact I had cultivated years ago when I helped her track financial fraud through shell companies. Code black. I typed poisoning in progress. 63y old male. Suspects are preparing lethal dose. Address is penthouse 4000, 201 Harbor Plaza, 88 Queens Quay East. Send help but silent approach.

 The second message was to Jonathan Reeves. Jonathan was not just my lawyer. He was my brother in arms, the CFO of Northstar Technologies, and the only person who knew the true extent of my wealth. Omega Protocol, I typed. They crossed the line. Activate the contingency plan. Bring the forensics team to Toronto General Hospital.

 I hit send and deleted the messages from my visible chat history. I slipped the phone back into my pocket just as a knock came at the bathroom door. Dad. Emily’s voice called out. Sweet as poisoned honey. Are you okay in there? We brought out the cake. It is your favorite. Come on. I flushed the toilet for effect and opened the door.

 I made my face slack, my eyes unfocused. I am okay, I said, my voice weak and trembling, just a bit lightaded. Come sit down, she said, taking my arm. Her touch felt like ice. She guided me back to the dining room. Marcus was standing by the table, smiling, a large chef’s knife in his hand. The cake sat in the center of the table.

 Three layers of chocolate decadence. It looked perfect. It looked like death. “Happy birthday, Robert,” Marcus said, cutting a massive slice. He placed it on a plate and slid it in front of me. The slice was enormous, enough for three people. He wanted to make sure I got a lethal dose. Eat up,” he said, his eyes locked on mine.

 “Emily made it just for you.” I looked at the cake. I looked at my daughter. She was staring at the plate with an intensity that was terrifying. She was not blinking. She was barely breathing. She was waiting for me to die. I picked up my fork. The silver felt cold and heavy in my hand. I cut into the cake, lifting a piece toward my mouth.

 I could see Marcus leaning forward slightly, his breath held. I brought the fork closer, closer. Then I clutched my chest. I let out a sharp, guttural gasp. My hand flew to my sternum, gripping my flannel shirt. I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a low groan. The fork clattered onto the plate, flinging chocolate across the white tablecloth.

 “Robert!” Emily shrieked, but she did not move toward me. “Dad, what is wrong?” I convulsed in my chair, throwing my head back. I knocked my water glass over with my elbow, sending ice and liquid cascading across the table. I let my body go limp and slid sideways, crashing heavily onto the marble floor.

 The impact jarred my shoulder, but I had fallen on construction sites before. I knew how to take a hit without real injury. I lay on the cold floor, my face pressed against the stone. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, my breathing ragged and loud. I heard Emily running toward me, her heels clicking on the floor. Dad, Dad, can you hear me? Do not touch him.

 Marcus hissed, his voice was right above me. What is happening? Emily’s panic was rising. He has not eaten the cake yet. Look at the plate. It is full. He did not take a single bite, Marcus whispered, and I could hear the fear creeping into his voice. If he dies of a natural heart attack right now, that is lucky.

 But what if he does not die? What if the paramedics come and find the poison in the cake? We have to get rid of it. We have to hide it, Emily said, her voice frantic. Put it in the trash. No, put it down the garb quickly. I heard the clatter of the plate being snatched from the table. I heard footsteps retreating into the kitchen. They were scrambling.

 They were terrified. Not because I was dying on their floor, but because their weapon was still loaded and sitting on the table. Call 911, Emily. Marcus yelled from the kitchen. You have to call them now. We cannot wait too long or it looks suspicious. Tell them he collapsed. Tell them he has a heart condition.

 I heard Emily fumbling with her phone. Yes. Hello, 911. My dad just collapsed. I think it is a heart attack. He is shaking. Please hurry. Penthouse 4,20 Harbor Plaza, 88 Queens Quay East. I lay there listening to my daughter perform her lie. She sounded convincing. She sounded like a grieving, panicked daughter.

 It shattered the last piece of hope I had held on to. She was truly gone. The girl I raised was dead. The woman standing above me was a stranger who viewed my life as an inconvenience, a transaction to be closed. Minutes stretched into eternity. I kept up the act, my breathing shallow, my body limp. Marcus came back into the room.

 I could hear him pacing. Why are they not here yet? He muttered. If he wakes up, Emily. If he wakes up and talks, we are done. He was acting weird before dinner. Do you think he knows? He could not know, Emily whispered. How could he know? He is just old. His heart is giving out. It is just bad timing. Bad timing.

 They called my death bad timing. Then the sirens cut through the night. The whale grew louder and louder, accompanied by the flashing of red and blue lights that danced across my closed eyelids through the penthouse windows. I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway, the pounding on the front door. In here, Emily screamed, her voice shifting to hysterical grief. Please help him.

 He just fell. The door burst open. I heard the rush of movement, the crackle of radios, the sharp smell of antiseptic entering the space. Sir, can you hear me? A deep voice asked. Hands were on me, checking my pulse, lifting my eyelids. I let my eyes flutter open just a slit. I saw a blur of paramedic uniforms.

 I saw Emily and Marcus standing back, holding each other, fake tears streaming down Emily’s face. But the face hovering directly above mine was the one I was waiting for. It was a woman with sharp eyes and a small tattoo of a maple leaf on her wrist. She was wearing the standard paramedic uniform, but there was a discrete pin on her collar, a silver shield with the letters NST, Northstar Technologies Security.

 She leaned in close, pretending to check my breathing. Her lips barely moved. Omega protocol confirmed. She whispered so low that only I could hear. Jonathan sent me. You are safe, Mr. Mitchell. I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. I gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod. We have a pulse, but it is erratic, the woman shouted, playing her part perfectly.

 We need to move him now. Get the stretcher. The team moved with precision. I was lifted onto the gurnie, straps secured across my chest. Is he going to make it? Emily asked, stepping forward, her voice trembling with fake concern. We are taking him to Toronto General, the lead paramedic said firmly, blocking Emily’s path with her body.

 You can follow in your car, but we need to stabilize him in transit. Do not delay us. Wait, Marcus cried out. I need to get his health card. I need to. We have everything we need on file, the paramedic interrupted. We are moving now. They wheeled me out into the cool March night. As they lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, I caught one last glimpse of my daughter and her husband standing in the doorway of that expensive penthouse.

They looked small. They looked scared. And for the first time all night, they looked like they realized they had lost control. The doors slammed shut, sealing me inside. The siren wailed, and the ambulance lurched forward. The paramedic pulled the oxygen mask slightly away from my face.

 “You can relax now, sir,” she said. “We secured the cake sample while the police were securing the perimeter. Forensics has it. You have the evidence.” I closed my eyes, letting the tears finally fall. I was alive. I was safe. But as the ambulance sped through the dark streets of Toronto, I knew the real work was just beginning. I had survived the poison.

 Now I had to become the poison. The hospital room smelled of bleach and recycled air, a sterile scent that did nothing to mask the underlying fear. I lay perfectly still in the narrow bed, my eyes closed, my breathing shallow and rhythmic. The wires from the heart monitor tugged gently at my chest, and the machine emitted a steady beep that served as proof of life.

 Jonathan had arranged everything perfectly. The doctor who admitted me was on his payroll. a man who specialized in discretion and staging medical theatrics. I was supposed to be unconscious, a man hovering between life and death after a massive cardiac event. To anyone watching, I was a dying old man. To the camera hidden in the smoke detector above my bed, I was bait.

 The heavy door creaked open. I did not flinch. I heard the click of high heels on Lenolium Emily. Then the heavier footsteps of dress shoes Marcus. They did not speak at first. They did not rush to my bedside to hold my hand. They did not ask the nurse, who had conveniently stepped out if I was going to make it. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustling of fabric and the distant beep of the monitor.

 “Check the door,” Emily whispered, her voice sharp and impatient. “Make sure nobody is coming.” “It is clear,” Marcus muttered. I felt a presence loom over me. Hands were on my body, but they were not checking for fever or comfort. They were patting down the pockets of my hospital gown and the jacket hanging on the chair.

 I heard the Velcro of my wallet ripping open. $73. Emily hissed, her tone dripping with contempt. $73 and a library card from 2008. Jesus. Marcus. My father lived like a homeless person. Where are the bank cards? Marcus whispered back. He keeps cash in a coffee can under his kitchen sink. Emily said, “You know that.” Pathetic.

 I heard the leather of my wallet being tossed onto the side table. “Well, it does not matter,” Marcus said. “The cash is nothing compared to the real prize. Get the papers.” “We need to do this before he wakes up or dies.” I lay there, my heart rate remaining steady through sheer force of will, listening to the rustle of heavy paper being unfolded.

 This is it,” Marcus said, his voice trembling slightly. “The durable power of attorney. I downloaded the template this morning from a legal site. It gives us control over everything. Medical decisions, real estate, bank accounts. If we get this executed, we can liquidate his assets before probate even starts.

 But he cannot sign it,” Emily snapped. “Look at him. He is out cold.” That is why we brought the inkpad. Marcus said section 7 subsection C. A signature by thumbrint is legally valid if the subject is physically unable to sign due to medical incapacity, provided it is witnessed. And who is the witness? I am. And you are.

 We just say he was awake for a second, lucid enough to nod consent. And we helped guide his hand. Who is going to argue with the grieving daughter? The logic was terrifyingly sound. It was also highly illegal. I felt the mattress depress as Emily sat on the edge of the bed. I focused on keeping my eyelids still, fighting the urge to clench my jaw.

 “Give me the pad,” she ordered. I felt her cold hand grab my right wrist. She lifted my arm. It was dead weight, heavy, and limp. I made sure of that. She maneuvered my hand toward something on the bedside table. “Open his hand,” she commanded. He is making a fist. I was not making a fist intentionally. It was just the natural resting state of a hand that had gripped tools for 40 years.

 Marcus grabbed my fingers and pried them open. He pulled my index finger and thumb apart, forcing my hand flat. The motion was not gentle. “Hold it steady,” Emily hissed. She grabbed my thumb. She twisted it. She bent the joint backward, forcing the pad of my thumb down onto the wet sponge of the ink pad. I felt the cold, sticky sensation.

 “Press harder,” she said. “We need a clear print,” she dug her nails into the flesh of my hand, leveraging her weight. The pain was sharp. It took every ounce of discipline not to recoil. “Okay, bring the paper,” she said. I felt the paper brush against my arm. She lifted my inky thumb and slammed it down onto the document.

 She rolled it side to side, grinding my skin against the fiber to ensure the ridges transferred. One more, she said. On the second page, this time, she was even rougher. She twisted my wrist at an awkward angle. I felt a pop in my joint. Pain shot up my arm, hot and electric. I let out a low, involuntary groan. “He is making noise,” Marcus said, panic in his voice.

 “Hurry up. I am hurrying. She snapped. There. Done. She dropped my hand. It flopped onto the sheets, throbbing. I could feel the sticky ink drying on my skin. She scrubbed my thumb with a rough alcohol wipe, not caring if it stung. She rubbed until my skin was raw. I lay there listening to them shuffle the papers.

They stood by the foot of the bed. I was no longer a person. I was a signature. I was a commodity. So, what is the plan now? Marcus asked. We wait, Emily said, her voice chillingly calm. We wait for the doctor to come back. We show him we have power of attorney and we discuss end of life options.

 End of life options? Marcus repeated. You mean pulling the plug? He is suffering, Marcus, she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. Look at him. He is practically gone already. Why drag it out? We show them the paper. We take control and we make the compassionate decision to let him go. Then we list the house.

 How much do you think we can get? Marcus asked, his voice eager. I looked up the comps, Emily replied. That Scarboro neighborhood is gentrifying fast. Developers are buying up those old lots for cash. The house itself is garbage. Obviously, it smells like sawdust and old man, but the land that is a corner lot near the subway. We could get 2 million for it. Maybe 2.

3 if we start a bidding war. 2 million? Marcus breathed. That clears the debt. That pays off the condo. That buys us the Lake Simco cottage. Exactly. Emily said 2 million, Marcus. And all we have to do is wait for his heart to stop. Honestly, he is doing us a favor by dying now. If he had lingered for years, he would have drained that equity with nursing home bills.

 I listened to them divide my life like wolves over a carcass. They talked about my truck as scrap metal. They talked about my tools as junk. They did not know about Northstar Technologies. They did not know about the investment accounts. They did not know that the house they were so eager to sell was already placed in a charitable trust.

 They knew nothing, and they did not know that the man lying in the bed was wide awake. I felt a coldness settle in my chest. It was the death of the last shred of paternal love I held for Emily. She was standing there nodding along as her husband planned my execution for a real estate payout. Okay, Emily said, clapping her hands together softly.

 Let us go find the doctor. We need to get this moving. Put on your sad face, baby. It is showtime. They walked out, leaving the door slightly a jar. I opened my eyes. I stared at the ceiling tiles. $2 million. That was my price. I slowly lifted my right hand. My thumb was red and swollen. There were still traces of black ink in the creases.

 I looked at the camera hidden in the smoke detector and let my lips curl into something cold and final. They wanted a quick death. They wanted a payout. I was going to give them a payout. But it would not be in dollars. It would be in consequences. I reached for the nurse call button and pressed it three times.

 The signal for Jonathan. It was time to wake up. It was time to come back from the