My Sister Tried To Pull The Plug On My Comatose Daughter To Steal Her Inheritance. Then My 7-year-old Son Pulled Out His Phone. Am I Wrong For Pressing Charges?
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. These people had eaten at my table, celebrated birthdays with my children, and accepted whatever hospitality I could offer.
Now they were standing around my daughter’s bed discussing her death like it was a mercy. Lisa wasn’t done; she never was when she smelled opportunity.
She said,
“I’ve already talked to my lawyer friend Martin. If Melody doesn’t make it and we can prove Rachel’s unfit, Bryce could come live with me. I can give him the life he deserves: private school, college fund, stability. The boy’s brilliant; it’s criminal to waste his potential in public school.”
Aunt Paula asked, and I could hear the interest in her voice,
“How would you prove she’s unfit?”
Lisa said casually,
“I’ve been documenting things. The times she’s left them with that Chinese woman because she can’t afford proper child care. The secondhand clothes. The fact that she feeds them mac and cheese three nights a week. Martin says courts look at the total picture of neglect.”
Mac and cheese? My kids loved mac and cheese.
We made it special with cut-up hot dogs and called it fancy dinner. They’d laugh and ask for seconds.
That was neglect to Lisa? Jerome asked,
“What about Todd? Won’t he fight you on this?”
Lisa laughed, a cold sound that I’d never heard from her before.
She said,
“Todd can barely take care of himself. Besides, he knows I’m right. He just feels sorry for Rachel because she’s his baby sister. Guilt isn’t the same as thinking she’s a good mother.”
I could see Bryce in my peripheral vision sitting in his corner chair. His coloring book was open, but his crayon wasn’t moving.
He was listening to every word, his little body tense. Part of me wanted to protect him from hearing this, but I still couldn’t move and couldn’t speak.
The betrayal was paralyzing.
The Hero and the iPhone
More relatives arrived over the next hour and Lisa held court like some kind of grief counselor with an agenda. Each time she’d pull them aside, speaking in those same hushed tones.
I caught fragments as they thought I slept. To my cousin Vera, she said,
“The doctors are just prolonging the inevitable. Rachel’s too emotional to make rational decisions.”
To Aunt Dolly, she said,
“If we all present a united front we can convince Rachel to let Melody go peacefully. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
To a cousin whose voice I couldn’t place, she said,
“I have power of attorney paperwork ready in her state. Rachel might sign anything.”
They talked about my daughter like she was already gone. They divided up my children like property in an estate sale.
Lisa would take Bryce because he showed promise. Maybe Todd could check on Rachel occasionally to make sure she didn’t do anything drastic in her grief.
Mom sat silent through all of it, her walker scraping against the floor occasionally as she shifted, but never speaking up and never defending me or Melody.
The worst part was when Lisa leaned directly over Melody and whispered, as if my unconscious daughter could hear her,
“Don’t worry sweetheart, Aunt Lisa will take good care of Bryce. He’ll have everything you would have wanted for him. The best schools, the best opportunities, things your mother could never give either of you.”
She was writing my daughter’s obituary and planning my son’s future while Melody’s heart was still beating. Her chest still rose and fell with the ventilator.
There was still hope, as Dr. Harrison had said. He said children were resilient and not to lose hope, but my family had already given up.
No, it was worse than that. They were eager for the end.
I felt tears sliding down my cheeks but didn’t dare wipe them away. Any movement would give me away and I needed to hear everything.
I needed to know exactly who these people really were.
The family I’d trusted, relied on, and loved despite their flaws had revealed themselves as vultures. They were circling what they assumed was dying prey.
But they’d made one crucial mistake. They’d forgotten about Bryce.
The door opened with its familiar pneumatic whoosh and Dr. Harrison entered with his team. Two residents flanked him with tablets in hand, alongside a nurse I recognized as Stephanie, who’d been especially kind to Melody.
The sudden shift in the room was palpable. The vultures straightened their backs and put on their masks of concern.
Dr. Harrison said gently, clearly thinking I was asleep,
“Mrs. Carter,”
Lisa immediately stepped forward, placing herself between the doctor and my bedside position.
She said,
“She’s exhausted doctor. I’m her sister Lisa. Perhaps we should speak in the hallway and let her rest.”
Dr. Harrison moved past Lisa toward me.
He said,
“Actually this concerns Melody’s treatment directly. Mrs. Carter needs to hear this.”
I finally opened my eyes, sitting up slowly as if just waking. My back ached from the position I’d been holding.
I said, my voice raspy from crying,
“I’m awake. What is it doctor?”
Dr. Harrison’s expression was serious but not grim.
He explained,
“Melody’s latest scans show the swelling has stabilized. However, there’s a surgical option we need to discuss. It’s a newer procedure called decompressive craniactomy with duroplasty. We would remove a section of skull temporarily to allow the brain room to swell without causing additional damage then reconstruct the protective covering.”
I asked, already knowing my answer but needing the information,
“What are the risks?”
He admitted,
“There are significant risks. Infection, bleeding, the possibility that it won’t change the outcome. But there’s also a strong possibility it could give her brain the space it needs to heal properly. In similar cases with children Melody’s age, we’ve seen remarkable recoveries. The success rate is approximately 60% for significant improvement.”
Lisa immediately interjected, her voice dripping with false concern,
“Doctor, as Rachel’s sister I think we need to be realistic about quality of life here. Even if Melody survives, what kind of life would she have? Brain damage, possibly severe disabilities. Perhaps we should consider other options.”
The words “other options” hung in the air like a death sentence. I saw Dr. Harrison’s eyebrows furrow slightly at Lisa’s eagerness to discuss alternatives.
I said, standing up fully now, my legs shaky but my voice firm,
“The only option that matters is saving my daughter. Whatever it takes. When can you do the surgery?”
