Margaret had the option to leave her husband’s three children behind when he died. However, she made the decision to raise them as her own, providing them with all the love and attention they required.

Years later, when Margaret was dealing with severe health problems, she was greeted with cold calculation and treachery rather than appreciation. Her stepchildren divided her estate without even waiting for her passing away. However, Margaret has a strategy, and you won’t be able to explain it.

Here is Margaret’s story:

My name is Margaret. I’m 63 now. When I first encountered my late husband, I was 38. He had three children from his previous marriage — 10, 12, and 14 years old at the time. We were married for just over a year when he passed unpredictedly.

I could have walked away. Nobody would’ve criticized me. But I stayed. I raised his kids as my own.

Paid for their school, their braces, their camps. Cheered at their graduations. Helped them with their first cars, their first homes. I never had children of my own — they were my entire world.

I never expected anything in return, I didn’t raise them to owe me something. But I also didn’t predict their nasty attitude in the times that were the darkest for me.

Fast forward 25 years. My health changed negatively. The doctors found a heart condition that would eventually take me out without surgery. My kids barely visited.

But then, everything changed for a while, when I first shared about the inheritance. That’s when my stepchildren suddenly became very… interested. Calls, visits, little gifts. At first, I thought it was sweet.

What they didn’t realize was that I had remained close to my late husband’s brother all these years. Peter, often known as Uncle Peter, is a leading heart surgeon in the country. When I explained what was going on, he scheduled my operation. Pro Bono.

I chose not to notify my stepchildren. I let them continue playing their little game of seeming to care and throwing clues about’making peace,’ while secretly scheming to divide my estate. Then came my ‘d3ath.’With Peter’s assistance, I staged it. The paperwork was issued by the hospital. My will was’read’—though, conveniently, I had made arrangements for a second version to remain undisclosed for the time being. The funeral was scheduled.

They arrived dressed in black, crocodile tears on full display, perhaps already deciding what to sell first. This is when the doors opened.

And there I was, very much alive, carried into the funeral home in a wheelchair, my heart racing faster than ever. The expressions on their faces? Priceless.

I delivered a short speech. Nothing exciting, just the facts. I reminded them that while their biological mother went, I remained. I gave up everything to provide children a good life. In return, they saw me as a bank account that needed to be closed.

Then I took out my revised will—the actual one. I had given everything, every penny, to a children’s shelter in the city.