It was like a ritual. The phone rang, breaking the eerie silence of the night. She had developed a survival essential, lying on her bed, avoiding damage by fear, allowing her mind to do the choice making. But she knew it was a temporary solution to a permanent problem. It caused excessive stress. The anxiety never ceased.

She picked up the phone.

‘Hello’, she uttered as always, her voice trembling.

‘How are you, Mom? I’m coming.’

‘No. You can’t. I know you can’t.’ she shouted as she felt the panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs in her lungs.

‘I will, I will.’ And the call went dead.

Tension grew in her face and limbs as she slowly got off the bed to drink water.

It was always her step-son on the phone whom she had poisoned and killed, a decade back more for his wealth than any vendetta.