My daughter, Emily Carter, had come to me weeks earlier… wearing long sleeves in the middle of summer.

“I’m just cold, Mom,” she said.

I pretended to believe her.

Other times, she smiled too brightly—eyes glassy, like she had cried and quickly wiped it away.

“Ethan’s just stressed,” she kept saying, as if repeating it would make it true.

“Come home,” I begged. “You’re safe with me.”

“It’ll get better,” she insisted. “Now that the baby’s coming… everything will change.”

I wanted to believe her.

I really did.

Back in the church, Ethan dropped into the front pew like he owned the place. He wrapped his arm around the woman in red and even chuckled when the priest spoke about “eternal love.”

I felt sick.

That’s when I noticed someone standing from the side aisle—Michael Reeves, Emily’s attorney.

I barely knew him. Quiet, serious—the kind of man whose silence carried weight.

He stepped forward holding a sealed envelope like it mattered.

Because it did.

When he reached the front, he cleared his throat.

“Before the burial,” he said firmly, “I am required to carry out a direct legal instruction from the deceased. Her will will be read… now.”

A ripple moved through the church.

Ethan scoffed.