My daughter pushed us off a cliff. As I lay bleeding, my husband whispered, “Play dead.” As our daughter and her husband crawled away for help, believing we were gone, I heard them rehearse their story. But the worst part was the 20-year-old secret my husband finally confessed as we lay there waiting to die—a secret that explained why our daughter wanted us dead in the first place.

My name is Anna, and I’m 58 years old. I never imagined that at this age, I would be playing dead to escape my own child.

For 35 years, I built what I believed was a perfect family. We had two children: Richard, our firstborn, and Amanda, five years younger, always reserved and watchful.

Everything changed one night in September, exactly twenty years ago. Richard, then 19, didn’t come home. At dawn, they found his body at the bottom of a ravine near the coast. The police concluded it was a tragic accident. I never questioned that story.

After Richard’s death, Amanda changed. The reserved girl was replaced by an attentive, loving daughter.

Four months ago, John and I decided to update our will. It was Amanda who suggested we visit the lawyer. “Mom, Dad, you’re over 55 now,” she’d said. “It’s important to have everything organized.”

She insisted on being named, along with her husband, Mark, as our sole heir. “We’ll take care of the fair distribution for the children,” she’d argued. “It’s better that we have access to the resources to take care of you properly.”

John, always more trusting, seemed convinced. We signed the documents.

The following weeks were strange. Amanda and Mark started visiting more often, with an unsettling tone. “Mom, you should think about selling this big house,” Amanda said.

Things got worse when Amanda suggested we give her power of attorney over our finances. “It’s just a precaution,” she explained.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The next day, I called my sister, Sarah. “Anna,” she said, “doesn’t it seem strange that she’s so anxious to control your money?”

That night, John and I had our first serious argument in years. “Anna,” he said in a very low voice, “there are things about Richard’s death that I never told you.”

My heart started beating so hard I thought it would burst. He sat down heavily at the kitchen table. “The night Richard died,” he began, his voice choked, “Amanda wasn’t in her room. I saw her leave the house. I followed her. She had been acting so strangely. I… I saw them arguing, near the ravine. Arguing about money.”

My world began to spin. “What money?” I whispered.

John looked up, tears in his eyes. “Days before he died, Richard came to me. He had discovered that Amanda was stealing money from our savings. Richard had proof. He was going to confront her.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

“Because when I got to the ravine that night,” he replied, his voice suffocated, “it was already too late. I saw Amanda standing next to Richard’s body. She was trembling, crying, ‘It was an accident. He slipped. I just defended myself, and he lost his balance.’ She begged me to help her. She was my daughter. Richard was already dead. I couldn’t bring one back by destroying the other.”

“But you believed her,” I murmured.

He nodded slowly. “And the stolen money… she promised she’d pay it back. She never did. I became her accomplice, Anna.”

“That’s why she wants to control our finances,” I whispered. “She wants to finish what she started.”

Just then, the phone rang. It was Amanda, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Hi, Mom! Mark and I were thinking, what if we take you to that viewpoint in the Blue Ridge Mountains next weekend? A family hike, to celebrate your anniversary?”

I looked at John. We had just received an invitation to our own execution.

We went anyway. Maybe because we needed proof. Maybe because we both knew running wouldn’t save us — not from the truth, and not from her.

The day was bright, unnervingly so. Amanda laughed as she walked ahead, Mark’s hand on her shoulder. John and I followed slowly up the narrow trail that curved above the cliff. The drop below was dizzying — endless forest, a gray ribbon of river far beneath.

When Amanda turned and smiled at me, I saw Richard’s eyes — but colder, empty.

“Mom, Dad, come closer!” she called. “You have to see this view!”

I don’t remember the shove. Just the wind — screaming past my ears, the flash of sky spinning into earth, and then blackness.

When I woke, pain was everywhere. My arm twisted wrong, blood pooling near my shoulder. Beside me, John was motionless. I reached for him — he stirred, lips barely moving.

“Play dead,” he whispered.

So we did. We lay there in the dirt, bodies broken, breaths shallow, as our daughter and her husband scrambled down a nearby path, shouting for help — but not for us. They rehearsed their story as they went:
“They slipped. We tried to stop them. It was an accident. We called 911.”

That’s when John’s voice, weak and trembling, reached me again.

“Anna… there’s more.”

I turned my head toward him.

“The night Richard died… Amanda wasn’t alone.” He coughed, blood on his lips. “Mark was there. She’d been seeing him since she was sixteen. Richard found out, and… he threatened to tell us.”

I felt my breath catch. “Sixteen?”

He nodded, barely. “I knew. I saw them together once. That’s why I helped her hide it — I thought if it came out, she’d be ruined. But it never stopped. When Richard found out, she panicked. Mark pushed him. She just… watched.”

The sound of sirens echoed faintly in the distance. John’s hand found mine.

“She killed her brother, Anna. And now… she wants to bury us too.”

I wanted to scream, but my body wouldn’t obey.

Minutes later, Amanda’s voice came closer, trembling with fake hysteria. “They fell! Please, help them! It was an accident!”

I closed my eyes.

When the rescuers arrived, we were both silent — still pretending. But I felt John’s grip loosen. When they lifted us onto the stretcher, he was gone.

Now, weeks later, I’m in a hospital bed with three broken ribs and a shattered arm. Amanda visits every day, crocodile tears and flowers. She thinks I remember nothing.

But I remember everything.

John’s confession. Richard’s scream in the wind. The look on her face at the edge of the cliff.

And I know what I have to do.

Tomorrow, I’ll call Detective Harris — the one who handled Richard’s “accident.” I still have John’s letter. His handwriting. His truth.

Our daughter thinks she got away with murder — twice.

But she has no idea that the woman she thought was dead is still here.
Still breathing.
And waiting.