“Exit to the sharks,” my voice whispered as I stepped off the yacht. The Atlantic completely engulfed me. I watched the impact of the blue sky fade above me, replaced by the cold suffocation of seawater. I barely made it out, coughing and gasping for air, and saw them for the last time—my son Michael and his wife, Evely—leaning side by side against the railing, their champagne glasses raised in a toast.
At seventy-one, I was no longer the agile husband of apes, but years of wading every morning on Cape Cod had taught me to endure the sea. My legs burned when I rowed, but surviving wasn’t a big deal to me. I’d risen through the ranks from the son of a construction worker to a real estate mogul with a net worth of more than ten million dollars. And now my own blood was being tossed over the side like unwanted garbage.
If they wanted me to go for my strength, fine; I’d let them taste victory. But once they left my house, dripping with seawater and covered in blood, I’d find myself waiting. And I’d rub them even more. I’d give them a “gift” they’d never forget.
Hospital services
Michael and Evely returned to the Massachusetts office three days later, their story perfectly blank. “It was a tragic accident,” Evely rehearsed to the staff, her eyes shining as she received orders. They told the Coast Guard that I had fallen overboard, too old to stay afloat. They didn’t find a body; just statements and paperwork.
Inside the library, with oak papers, they poured themselves a bottle. Laughter, with that laughter that seems to mean assured victory. But when Evelya grabbed the remote, the giant television screen lit up; not with the news, but with my face.
“Surprise,” I said into the recording. My quiet, firm voice went straight to the reader.
Michael’s glass slipped from her hand. Evely’s lips parted, words failing to come out.
Hospital services
The video cost. If you’re seeing this, it means you tried to take what I cost. You want the money? Fine. But you should know the truth about what you inherited.
I had anticipated the betrayal years before. My lawyer, a man I had trusted since I was seventeen, had helped me set up a trust. If I died under suspicious circumstances, the money would go to Michael. In return, every dollar would go to charities, veterans’ homes, and scholarships. Evely always laughed at every donation I made to charity, calling it “old man guilt.” He never realized that it was the escape route that I had built.
“Ten million dollars,” I said in the video, “and the result will go to your greedy hands. Unless you spend it like I did: brick by brick, deal by deal, sacrifice by sacrifice.”
The recording ended, leaving the room in silence.
Then came the real blow. I entered the library door, brimming with life. My clothes pressed, my posture firm, the scar on my forehead, the only proof of the attack from the sea. Michael’s face paled, his knees trembled as if he were a child again, caught robbed of the cookie jar. Evely, however, remained erect, her eyes narrowed like a gambler doubling the bet.
“You should be dead,” he hissed.
“And yet here I am,” I said. “And this is my gift to both of us: freedom. Freedom from me, from the money you clearly value more than family. You’ll be packing tonight. By dawn, you’ll be gone from this house, from my company, from everything I have. I wish you were gone; now you’re yours.”
Family games
Evely wasn’t one to accept defeat in silence. “You can’t just erase us,” she snapped, pacing the carpet like a cornered animal. “Michael is your son. You owe him everything.”
Hospital services
Michael remained silent, his forehead pearly with pain. He stared at us, torn, but too cowardly to choose.
“Do I owe him something?” I barked. “I gave him every opportunity. The university degree, the job at the company, the place at the table. And what did he do with it all? He let me turn him into a co-conspirator against his own father.”
Evely’s mocking smile returned. “Do you really think the police will believe your story before the other one? A paranoid, crass guy who claims his son murdered him? You have no proof.”
“You have the wrong idea,” I said.
From the drawer of my desk, I took out a small waterproof bag that…
From my desk drawer, I pulled out the small waterproof case I’d been strapping to my phone before Evely pushed me. Inside was a compact GoPro camera. Its memory card held a message: Evely’s cry, “Sharks out,” followed by Michael’s laughter.
The blood drained from Michael’s face. Evelya lunged at me, but I stepped back. “One copy is already in my lawyer’s hands. Another one is in the abacus. If you hate something, everyone sees it.”
Then the fight was over. Michael slumped into the chair, his head in his hands. Evely, however, walked slowly to the other side, her face impassive. “You are a cruel man,” she said in a low voice. “You don’t want a son, you want a soldier. Perhaps you were once capable of love.”
His words hurt, but only briefly. I had loved my son. I still loved him, in some deep recesses of me. But love was no longer blind.
In the morning, their suitcases were waiting at the door. I watched them walk away in silence, the gravel crunching under their feet like the sound of breaking chains.
For the first time in years, the house was quiet, too quiet. I went into the library, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down in the leather chair I’d tried to reclaim. My strength was intact, my life restored.
But the money repeatedly seemed heavier than before. Betrayal had taken its shine off. So, in the weeks that followed, I began calling charities, signing documents, transferring my wealth to people who would value it more than Evely ever could. The veterans gave me housing, the students scholarships, the hospitals equipment.
That was the real “gift.” Not veпgaпza, if even sυsurviveпcia, siпo coпvert thЅп legacy of greed and thЅпo of generosity.
And Michael? Maybe one day I’ll find out about him, either as a thief looking for money, or as a man looking for forgiveness.
Until then, the sharks would always be waiting in the water between us.
