I came back from my sister’s funeral. My daughter was laughing in my room, trying to steal my house with fake medical papers. I took her red-handed.

It came from above. From my room.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. My daughter, Amanda, was supposed to be at work. She had insisted that she could not attend the funeral because of an « important meeting ». I believed her. I always believed her.

I climbed the stairs slowly, my heart pounding with each step. The door to my room was ajar. Inside, Amanda was sitting on my bed, surrounded by papers strewn across my dresser and bedside table. She was on the phone and laughing.

« No, it’s done, » she says casually. « As soon as the doctor signs the certificate, the house will legally be mine. She won’t even understand what happened. »

I froze.

She hadn’t seen me yet.

On my dresser were documents I’d never seen before: medical evaluations, letters on hospital letterhead, copies of my ID card. At the top of the pile was a form entitled « Declaration of Mental Incapacity ».