Samantha here: wealthy entrepreneur and mother who’s been taken advantage of at every turn. I have two children, each of them daughters. Let me tell you, when people say that girls are more challenging to raise, they are correct. I’m in my fifties now, and they keep talking about what they will get when I drop dead: the little brats. Miranda wants the land: ten acres, five horses, and, of course, the swimming pool. She’s always been the outdoorsy type.
Briana, on the other hand, wants the Louis Vuitton bags, the million dollars in high heels that I have purchased over the years, and all of my dresses, but only the designer ones, which she had the audacity to tell me to my face.
“So, mom, when you die, please make sure I get the designer bags, and you know that Gucci is my favorite, so don’t forget that. Anything by Gucci ever. Oh yeah, and I’m getting the house, right? Briana can have the pool and the land, I guess.” she huffed, “I just wouldn’t want you to waste time giving her something she wouldn’t use, and she definitely doesn’t have the business sense to deal with the house. I’m a real estate agent, mom. I’d rent it out, maybe even sell it for a higher price, you know. Houses in this area are really hot right now. They’re constantly increasing in value.”
“How could you say that, Briana? This where I raised you and Miranda as a single mother after Todd left. That pool is where you first learned to swim. I could never part with it.”
“Well, I could, but you’d be dead, so I guess it wouldn’t matter, would it?” she’d asked before sauntering off.
My heart sank.
How could she say that to me? Her own mother who’d raised her with my blood, sweat, and tears?
My mouth was agape, and I was holding back tears. I’m sitting down writing the will right now. I decided I might as well get it out of the way so that my daughters get absolutely nothing!
It’s best to make sure that these spoiled brats understand the value of hard work, and they certainly won’t if I just give them all of my assets for free.
Recently, I’ve been meditating, working from home a bit more, and eating well.
Those two can go fuck themselves. I’m going to live until I’m 103!
I rarely drive and I always lock the doors, just in case those bitches are coming back inside.
I can’t believe I raised women who are so coldblooded. I’m disappointed that they are my children. I mean, I know I was always working and they had babysitters most of the time, and maybe I slept with the pool boy once when Briana was little and snuck in, but, seriously, I thought I had a little bit more warmth than that. I at least deserved a “thank you” or “I love you, mom” once in a while but I didn’t ever receive those heartwarming words. Instead all I got was, “When you die, mom, make sure you give us all of your fancy stuff. Oh, never mind! Only the fancy stuff we like!” I hope they rot in Hell.
I dedicate my house to Eduardo, the pool boy, and, Hell, I’ll give him the pool too..
He appreciated me more than any of my immediate family members ever had and he’d never once stolen a dime from me, even though he’d grown up poor in Guatemala. That was one man who had quite a bit of decency.
I think about donating the property to my late husband, Philip, but think better of it.
He’d had the nerve to cheat on me with the maid! —The maid, who was seventy, from Mexico, and didn’t speak a word of English—the nerve!
I put my pen down and sigh.
Fuck it. I’m leaving everything to Eduardo: the pool, the land, the house, the Gucci bags (I think he mentioned having a sister who had a weakness for designer items during the short time when we were together), the clothes, all of them, will go to directly to him. Briana won’t get so much as a sparkly sock. That bitch! Wanting me dead just so she can prance around in designer Prada that I worked my ass off for and spent my hard-earned money on. She wasn’t getting a cent and Miranda wasn’t either: you’d think someone who went to fancy Buddhist retreats (only the ones in New York that cost an arm and a leg), and rode motorcycles and was always going on and on about her love for horses would have more of a heart. She went on a volunteer trip to help the African children and was too busy trying to get Wi-Fi so she could post about how incredibly selfless and generous she was that she didn’t do a damn thing for the community. Her boyfriend, Stephan, had told me. She was also a hunter, of course. She absolutely loved killing bears, which I could never do because they resembled the human form too closely for my liking.
That’s probably where she got her penchant for murder. I was scared that she was planning to poison my tea so that I would fall to the floor at any minute, and I was acutely aware of the fact that this vicious, selfish, and cruel woman did indeed have a gun at her disposal (our country really should do more thorough background checks, although I’m sure that my pathetic excuse for a daughter would be conniving enough to manipulate everyone to believe she was the innocent lady that she pretended to be.) Let me tell you, she is pure evil behind closed doors. Pure evil. I am ashamed to admit that I bore such a monster in my womb for so many months.
The phone rings and I check the caller ID, “Briana.”
I ignore it.
Briana can go fuck herself.