“Hello, river,” she whispered in my ear as she pushed me in. Her voice was as sweet as it was cruel. I felt the icy water hit my body, and for a moment I thought the world was ending. My daughter-in-law—that woman who for years had feigned respect and affection—had carried out her plan with the coldness of a professional. My son, my only son, was a few feet away, watching. He didn’t scream, he didn’t run, he didn’t try to save me. He just smiled. A smile I will never forget.

What they didn’t know was that, despite my seventy-four years, water had never frightened me. When I was young, I worked as an assistant at a rescue center. I knew how to float, stay calm, and conserve my air. And, above all, I knew how to recognize betrayal.

The blow left me stunned, but not unconscious. The river current was gentler than they had imagined; a few meters downstream there was a bend where the water was almost still. I let myself drift, feigning weakness. I knew that, from the bank, they only needed to see me disappear.

I disappeared too. But not in the way they wanted.

As I clung to a root sticking out of the mud, I heard muffled laughter. Then hurried footsteps. And finally the sound of a car engine driving away. It was clear: they had no intention of coming back for me.

It wasn’t the first time we’d argued about money. My fortune—some eighty million accumulated after decades of work and careful investments—had been the shadow that corroded my relationship with my son for years. His wife, with her flawless smile, had become the voice that fueled his ambition. My refusal to give them their inheritance early was, apparently, the last straw.

I remained silent, breathing heavily, until the sound of the car faded completely. Then I climbed out of the water and hid in the bushes. Night was falling, damp and cold, but my mind was clearer than ever. I felt the weight of betrayal on my shoulders, a burden I hadn’t asked for but now had to bear.

That same night I returned home. Not through the front door, of course. I used the back entrance, the one they never remembered existed. When I turned on the living room light, I sat in my favorite armchair, the same one from which I had watched my son grow up, make decisions, and make mistakes. I waited, motionless.

I waited for them to return, believing that I had died.

And when they finally came in, soaked from the rain, nervous, murmuring clumsy plans… there I was. Sitting. Watching them.

Expecting.

My son was the first to see me. He opened the door with an anxious expression, no doubt expecting to find the house dark, ready for the staging of my disappearance. As soon as he switched on the hall light and saw me sitting there, he stepped back. His face went pale in a matter of seconds. My daughter-in-law, who was coming in behind him, dropped the umbrella she was carrying. The sharp thud of the plastic against the floor broke the silence like a gunshot.

“Dad…?” she asked, her voice breaking.

I didn’t answer. I just folded my hands in my lap, like a judge waiting for the defendant’s confession. And although neither of us spoke, our eyes said it all: fear.

They weren’t expecting a logical confrontation; they were expecting a dead body. That night they had already imagined what their lives would be like without me: without the “burden,” without the “stubborn old man,” without the “problem” who refused to relinquish his inheritance. What they never imagined was that the old man could walk home.

My gaze lingered on the drops of water falling from their clothes. They had stayed on the bridge longer than necessary, perhaps checking if the river had returned any sign of me. Or perhaps they were discussing their alibi. In any case, their faces said it all.

“I thought you’d gone for a walk,” I finally said, in a tone so calm that it disturbed them more than any shout.

My daughter-in-law tried to compose herself.

—Yes… yes, we went out for a bit. We wanted to clear our heads.

“And why are they soaked?” I asked without raising my voice.

“It rained,” he replied quickly.

“It didn’t rain until ten minutes ago,” I said.

I saw her hesitate for just a second, but it was enough to confirm everything.

My son, always more impulsive, stepped forward.
“Dad, what’s going on? You look… strange.”

“Strange,” I repeated, savoring the word. “Weren’t you expecting to see me?”

No one answered.

I let them sweat for a few more minutes. I watched their every move, every breath. They looked like two cornered animals. But I wasn’t looking for immediate revenge; I was looking for the truth. I wanted to hear them admit it, or at least see them break down.

“What did you do tonight?” I asked my daughter-in-law directly.

She swallowed.
“Nothing. We just… went for a walk.”

—And you? —I looked at my son.

-The same.

I nodded slowly, as if accepting their lies, but inside a part of me was breaking. Not my heart; that had already been destroyed in the river. What was breaking now was the idea of ​​family, the notion that I could still trust someone.

I slowly got up from the armchair. The silence was so heavy you could cut it with a knife.

“Tomorrow,” I said firmly, “the three of us will go to the police station. There are things that need to be documented.”

My words fell upon them like a block of ice.

My daughter-in-law tried to smile.
“Sure… but why?”

“Because someone tried to kill me,” I replied frankly. “And I’m not going to wait around for the next attempt.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but I raised my hand.
“Don’t say anything now. We’ll talk in front of an officer tomorrow.”

The tension was so thick they could barely breathe.

Without further ado, I went up to my room. I didn’t know what they would do that night. But I did know one thing: they could no longer pretend they hadn’t seen the truth.

I slept little that night. Not out of fear, but as a strategy. They weren’t sleeping much either—I could hear it in the footsteps in the hallway, the whispers in the kitchen, the hurried tone of every conversation. I waited, patient. I knew that dawn would bring decisions.

When I went down to the kitchen early, I found my son sitting at the table, his eyes red and his hands trembling around a cup of coffee. He looked as if he’d aged ten years overnight. My daughter-in-law, on the other hand, was stiff, with that false composure she always used to control the situation.

“We need to talk,” he said, before she could even say hello.

“Talking is exactly what we’ll do,” I replied, taking a seat. “At the police station.”

She gritted her teeth.
“There’s no need to go that far.”

—Yes, it’s necessary —I insisted.

My son looked up, desperate.
“Dad, please… you’re misunderstanding everything. How could you think we…?”

I let him finish, though his attempt at innocence was so poor that even he seemed embarrassed. I leaned back on the table, looking him in the eye.

—If they want me not to file a complaint today, they must give me a single logical reason to believe that what happened last night was not an attempted murder.

Silence.

My daughter-in-law was the first to break down.
“We don’t have to give explanations,” she said. “And if you insist on making this public, it will look like you’re losing your memory or that you made a mistake. It’s not in your best interest.”

The threat was crude, but clear. They were counting on manipulating my age to discredit me. They had planned everything.

And then I said it:

—Last night I left my phone recording in my pocket before going out to the river.

They both froze. It was as if the room ran out of oxygen. She took a step back; he opened his mouth without making a sound.

“It didn’t just record the shove,” I continued. “It recorded your whisper, Clara. ‘Hello, river.’ Does that sound familiar?”

My daughter-in-law turned pale instantly. Her mask crumbled.

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t prove anything,” he stammered.

“He also recorded your laugh,” I added.

My son jumped up, as if trying to snatch the phone from me.
“Dad, you’re not going to ruin our lives over a misunderstanding,” he said, even though he knew perfectly well there was no such misunderstanding.

I stood up.
—I didn’t destroy anything. You did.

I explained my plan: I would hand the recording over to the police and let the law take its course. I wasn’t willing to compromise my life or allow them to continue profiting from my fear.

Then something unexpected happened. My son slumped in his chair, covering his face with both hands. For the first time since all of this, he cried. Not fake tears, but genuine ones, with a pain that pierced me more than I wanted to admit.

“That’s not how it was…” she said between sobs. “We just wanted to scare you a little, maybe so you’d give us some money. I… I didn’t think…”

I nodded, because deep down I knew: he was never the mastermind behind the crime.

My daughter-in-law, however, continued to resist.
“You’re making it all up. You have no real proof. And if you file a complaint, we’ll say you jumped into the river in a fit of madness.”

I looked at her with a calmness that disarmed her.

—So, Clara, there’s only one simple path left: either you come with me to the police station… or you come in handcuffs.

My words were final. She understood that she had lost.

That same day we went to the police. I gave my statement, handed over the recording, and explained every detail. My son also gave his statement, his voice breaking, admitting his part with genuine belatedness. Clara tried to deny everything until she couldn’t anymore.

The case moved quickly. The recording was compelling. Clara’s inconsistencies were too. And her debt history even more so.

Months later, the court delivered its verdict.
My daughter-in-law was convicted.
My son received a lesser sentence, but enough to remove him from the influence that had consumed him.

Me too?

I returned to my home, to my garden, to my silences.
I still have my eighty million, yes, but that doesn’t matter so much anymore.

What matters is that I’m still alive.
And that, since that night, I’ve learned a brutal truth:

Sometimes, love doesn’t disappear: it rots. And when it rots, it tries to drag you down.

But I learned to swim a long time ago.