My new husband went on a business trip for a few days and left me with his “paralyzed” seven-year-old son. But as soon as his car disappeared around the corner, the boy jumped out of the wheelchair and whispered: “Quick… we need to shut off the gas. Otherwise, we’re finished.” 
We met at work. He was my boss – an educated, composed, confident man. He spoke calmly, looked attentively, and knew how to listen. I felt safe around him. Almost immediately, he confessed that he had a son, and that the boy had been completely paralyzed for two years. His arms and legs didn’t move. All responsibility rested on him.
This didn’t scare me. On the contrary, it touched me. A man so devoted to a sick child cannot be bad.
We married quickly. I moved in with them. The house was large and quiet. The son really didn’t move. Empty gaze, lowered head, lifeless arms.
I fed him with a spoon, adjusted his blanket, read aloud, hoping he could at least hear or understand something.
When my husband said he would be away for a few days, I didn’t object. He kissed me on the forehead, patted his son’s head, and left.
I fed the boy, sat him by the window, and settled on the sofa with a book. Not even ten minutes passed before I noticed a strange smell. First faint, barely noticeable. Then stronger. My head started hurting, I felt dizzy. My body became heavy, as if something was pressing on me. I didn’t understand what was happening.
Suddenly, I heard a rustle behind me.
I turned and saw my “paralyzed” stepson rise from the wheelchair.
“We need to shut off the gas,” he said quickly, grabbing my hand. “Dad… it’s him.”
I gasped.
“You… but how… you…”
— I’m not paralyzed, — he interrupted. — I was pretending.
Not a single word made sense in my head. I looked at him, at his tightly clenched fingers, at his tense face, and realized this was not a dream.
— The gas is on in the kitchen, — he said. — He did it before leaving. I saw it.
We literally ran into the kitchen. The smell was already strong. The boy skillfully reached the stove and turned off the valve. I opened the windows wide.
— But why? — I whispered as we stepped into the hallway.
He looked at me so maturely that I felt more afraid than from the smell of the gas.
— The house is insured. And you too. And me. For a lot of money. He has problems in his business. I heard his conversations. He thought if I was a “vegetable,” I wouldn’t understand. I pretended so he wouldn’t do something to me earlier.
Everything inside me went cold. I remembered how my husband insisted on the insurance. How he persuaded me to sign the papers “just in case.”
— He expected the neighbors to smell it too late, — the boy added quietly. — And he would be in another city.
One thing became clear: if we stay, there might not be a second chance.
I grabbed the bag, the documents, put the jacket on the boy. My hands were shaking, but I acted fast. We left the house without looking back.
