The Death Benefit

The first time I heard them planning my death, it was a Wednesday night.

The study door cracked open just a sliver. I was walking past with my pill bottle in hand when their voices drifted into the hallway.

My mom, Sandra Warren, sounded completely unfazed, like she was discussing a routine business investment. "The insurance company confirmed it. Freya's policy is worth five million dollars. It's a death payout, and we're the sole beneficiaries."

My dad, Daniel Mason, shuffled through a stack of paperwork. "Five million? We only put eighty thousand into the premiums back then. That’s a massive return."

Sandra nodded. "And because it’s an illness-related death, there’s no waiting period. It pays out immediately. I already had the lawyer double-check."

"Then let's cancel the surgery." Daniel set his pen down.

"The operation costs three million, and the survival rate is only sixty percent. We’re better off keeping the money and waiting for the payout. That’s five million straight to the bank."

"Besides," Sandra added, "that five million is exactly what we need to send Andy to that Swiss summer camp and buy a place in the school district."

She paused for a moment, a hint of doubt creeping into her voice. "What if people start talking, though?"

Daniel scoffed. "Talking about what? It’s a congenital heart defect. Even the specialists said it’s incurable. We’re just facing reality.

"When the time comes, we’ll just tell everyone we exhausted every option, but it was out of our hands. Then we throw a funeral, invite a few journalists, and turn the whole thing into a solid PR campaign for the company."

The pill bottle slipped from my grip and hit the floor.

Instantly, the study went silent.

I leaned down, picked up the bottle, and turned on my heel.

Behind me, Sandra’s voice cut through the silence. "Freya? What are you doing out there?"

I kept walking without looking back. "Just getting my medication."

"Well, take it and get some sleep. You’ve got a follow-up at the hospital tomorrow morning."

"Okay."

I made it back to my room and shut the door behind me.

My eyes drifted to the small whiteboard sitting on my nightstand. Written right in the center: 47 days.

It turned out that wasn't a countdown to my recovery, but their payout date.

That night, I came to a decision. Since they were so eager for me to die, I’d give them exactly what they wanted.

Just not in the way they were expecting.