They Thought the Old Woman Was Senile—But Her Revenge Stank for a Lifetime
Doña Lola had been forgetting things lately. Sometimes she asked the same question three times in a row. Sometimes she misplaced her glasses and blamed the maid.
Her children, Juan and Ana, whispered behind her back:
— “She’s already confused. All that’s missing is her signature on the deed.”
— “Once she signs, we’ll send her away. Easy.”
One afternoon, they sweet-talked her into going with them to the notary’s office.
“Just a health certificate, mamá,” they lied.
But the paper wasn’t a certificate. It was a property transfer worth 4 million pesos.
Lola signed without hesitation. That night, Juan and Ana dropped the mask.
— “Mom, you’ll need to stay elsewhere for a while. We’re renovating the house.”
She lowered her head and said nothing. Her husband, Don Pedro, his blood boiling, quietly packed their bags and led her away under the cover of night.
The siblings believed they had finally won.
The Return
Two days later, as Juan and Ana enjoyed their “new” home, a rusty pickup stopped at the gate.
Out stepped Doña Lola, in her cotton blouse and shawl. She carried a dented tin can that reeked so terribly, neighbors began peeking through their windows.
She stood tall before her children and said:
“You thought I was senile. But I only pretended. I recorded every word of your plotting, every fraudulent paper you made me sign. For the past 48 hours, I’ve been with a lawyer annulling the transfer and filing charges with the police.”
Lola lifted the lid of the tin. The stench rolled through the house like poison.
“And this… this is my gift. A sauce I let rot for two years. In our town, this smell means disgrace. I planned to throw it away. But no—it belongs here. To remind you that betrayal leaves a stench no wealth can wash away.”
At that moment, Don Pedro stepped inside, leaning on his cane. His voice was steady, sharp as a blade:
“We don’t need your riches. But if you ever try to steal from your mother again, you’ll have to cross my dead body first.”
The Stench That Never Left
Juan and Ana’s faces turned ashen. They stammered, “Mamá… we just wanted to manage it…”
But Lola’s faint smile silenced them.
“Manage it? Let the police and the neighbors decide. I may be old, but not foolish. Children who betray their parents will carry this stench all their lives. No matter how hard you scrub, it will cling.”
Outside, neighbors had gathered, whispering, pointing.
Inside, the smell of the rotting sauce filled every corner, like a curse.
Juan and Ana could do nothing but bow their heads—forever marked, not by poverty, but by disgrace.