I stepped into my eight-month-pregnant daughter’s funeral with lilies thick in the air, their scent suffocating. Her husband stood beside the coffin—smiling—his arm wrapped around a woman I had never seen before. “Have you no shame?” I hissed. He leaned close and muttered, “After today, I’m free.” Then the lawyer cleared his throat. “Per her will… there is one condition.” My son-in-law scoffed—until the document was unfolded. The color drained from his face. “No… no, that’s impossible.” In that moment, I understood—my daughter had arranged every detail.

I entered St. Mark’s Funeral Home with my fists clenched so tightly my wedding band pressed painfully into my skin. Emily Carter should have been choosing crib sheets and nursery paint, not resting in a gleaming mahogany casket, her eight-month belly still visibly round beneath the satin lining. I kept telling myself I would wake up from the call two nights earlier: “Mrs. Carter, there’s been an accident.”

In the front row, my son-in-law, Jason Reed, stood as though he were the host of the gathering. Not merely standing—he was smiling softly, shoulder-to-shoulder with a blonde woman in a fitted black dress that clung to her figure. She dabbed at perfectly dry eyes before flashing him a small smile. He squeezed her hand in return.

Something inside me broke loose. I stepped close enough to catch the sharp scent of his cologne—too crisp, too polished for this place. “Jason,” I said, my voice low and trembling, “what is she doing here?”

I stepped into my eight-month-pregnant daughter’s funeral with lilies thick in the air, their scent suffocating. Her husband stood beside the coffin—smiling—his arm wrapped around a woman I had never seen before. “Have you no shame?” I hissed. He leaned close and muttered, “After today, I’m free.” Then the lawyer cleared his throat. “Per her will… there is one condition.” My son-in-law scoffed—until the document was unfolded. The color drained from his face. “No… no, that’s impossible.” In that moment, I understood—my daughter had arranged every detail.

I entered St. Mark’s Funeral Home with my fists clenched so tightly my wedding band pressed painfully into my skin. Emily Carter should have been choosing crib sheets and nursery paint, not resting in a gleaming mahogany casket, her eight-month belly still visibly round beneath the satin lining. I kept telling myself I would wake up from the call two nights earlier: “Mrs. Carter, there’s been an accident.”

In the front row, my son-in-law, Jason Reed, stood as though he were the host of the gathering. Not merely standing—he was smiling softly, shoulder-to-shoulder with a blonde woman in a fitted black dress that clung to her figure. She dabbed at perfectly dry eyes before flashing him a small smile. He squeezed her hand in return.

Something inside me broke loose. I stepped close enough to catch the sharp scent of his cologne—too crisp, too polished for this place. “Jason,” I said, my voice low and trembling, “what is she doing here?”