They said I could survive anything — and maybe that’s why I did.
One second, I was admiring the Amazon. The next, a shove — a splash — and the river swallowed me whole. My son’s calm face, his wife’s soft whisper: “Go down to the river.” That’s when I knew — this trip wasn’t for bonding. It was for inheritance.
But I didn’t drown. I fought the current, reached the shore, and called my lawyer. When they returned home, expecting to mourn, I was waiting — alive and ready.
I didn’t seek revenge. I sought justice. The law handled the rest, and my will was rewritten so no one could touch what wasn’t theirs.
Years later, my son came to apologize. I forgave him — but I never forgot.
Now, every time I see a river, I remember: being pushed doesn’t mean you have to sink. Sometimes, it’s how you learn to stand again.
