“Don’t go to your husband’s funeral. Check your sister’s house…” That’s the letter I got on the day we were burying my husband. I thought it was some sick joke, but I decided to stop by my sister’s place anyway—I had a key. And when I opened the door, I was stunned by what I saw…

She explained what would need to be processed, which forms to fill out, which lawyers to contact. I nodded and listened, all while thinking that every piece of paper in that folder was part of the performance. Somewhere, there had to be real documents.

The ones that showed where the money was actually going. Then Patrick’s brother, Stephen, arrived. He was five years older than Patrick and worked in city administration.

A serious man with graying temples and a firm stare. He hugged me and said he’d been really worried yesterday. That he almost came to check on me himself, but Margaret stopped him.

He sat down next to me and started talking about how much he’d miss his brother. About how Patrick was the best person he’d ever known. That people like him shouldn’t die so young.

I listened to his words and felt the anger boiling up inside me. Then Stephen pulled out another folder, this one about the inheritance. He explained that the house and car were being transferred to me.

That there was a bank deposit and life insurance, all set up properly. No issues. But when he opened the insurance policy, my heart stopped.

There were two names listed as beneficiaries. Mine, at 70 percent. And Brenda’s, at 30.

I stared at that line, frozen, unable to believe what I was seeing. When did Patrick add Brenda to the policy? And why? Stephen noticed my reaction and explained that Patrick had changed the policy two months ago. Said he just wanted to help Brenda, she’d recently gone through a divorce, was living alone, struggling with money.

Two months ago. That meant they were planning this even back then. I asked, isn’t it a little strange to add your wife’s sister to your life insurance? Stephen shrugged and said Patrick had always been kind.

That he saw Brenda like a little sister and just wanted to take care of her. Margaret agreed. Said Patrick often talked about Brenda, worried about her after the divorce, wanted to help her get back on her feet.

I nodded and smiled, but inside, I was boiling. So it wasn’t just some secret affair. They were planning my future.

Deciding how much money I’d get, and how much they’d take for themselves. We stayed at Margaret’s until lunch. She told stories from Patrick’s childhood, showed me old photos, cried over his school notebooks.

Stephen talked about his brother’s job, his dreams, how he wanted to buy a house in the countryside and raise rabbits. It was all very touching. If I hadn’t known the truth.

But I did. I knew that the man they spoke of with such love was, at that very moment, sitting in my sister’s house planning how to spend the insurance payout. As I was leaving, Margaret handed me another box.

It had Patrick’s personal things, books, CDs, some papers. She said she couldn’t bear to look through them herself. Thought it might be easier for me.

I took the box and drove home. On the way, I stopped at the store and bought groceries. I needed to keep up appearances.

Needed things to look normal. At the store, I ran into our neighbor Linda. An older woman who knew everything and everyone in the neighborhood.

She offered her condolences, said she was devastated to hear about Patrick’s passing. Then she leaned in and whispered, is it true you didn’t go to the funeral? I told her I’d gotten sick, passed out, and only came to later that evening. Linda nodded like she understood, but I saw the doubt in her eyes.

Back home, I set the box on the table and started sorting through it. Books Patrick had been reading recently. Music CDs, old photos.

Nothing unusual. But at the very bottom, I found a notebook. Just a regular checkered notebook, half full.

I opened it and saw Patrick’s handwriting. Most of it was mundane, appointments, phone numbers, shopping lists. But toward the end, it changed.

Dates. Amounts of money. Names I didn’t recognize.

And at the very end, a plan. A detailed plan for faking his death. I read those pages and couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Patrick had thought through everything. Which doctor to bribe. What documents to forge.

How to stage the funeral. Even how to act around me in the final days. One note said he needed to start pulling away from his wife, talk less, show less affection, so it’d be easier to disappear when the time came.

Another said Brenda was getting nervous and needed reassurance. He had to calm her down, convince her it would all work. I flipped through the pages, feeling like my world was collapsing for the second time in two days.

Turns out the last few months of our marriage had been nothing but a performance. Patrick had been playing the role of the dying husband. And I’d been the devoted wife.

And I’d played my part a little too well. The phone rang. It was Brenda.

I stared at the screen for a long time before answering. Her voice sounded anxious. She asked how the meeting with Patrick’s mother went.

Wanted to know if I needed help with the paperwork. I told her about the insurance. That Patrick had listed her as one of the beneficiaries.

Brenda paused, then said she was shocked. That she didn’t know anything about it. That Patrick had never mentioned it.

She was lying. I could hear it in her voice. Brenda offered to come over.

Said she didn’t want me to be alone on such a difficult day. That we could go through Patrick’s things together. I agreed.

I needed to see her face. To find out just how good she was at pretending. She showed up an hour later.

Wearing a black dress, hair pinned up, face pale. She looked like someone deep in mourning. She hugged me and started crying.

Said she still couldn’t believe Patrick was gone. That he was like an older brother to her. That she didn’t know how to go on.

We sat in the kitchen, and I made tea. Brenda talked about the funeral. How beautiful the choir sounded in the church.

How many people came to say goodbye to Patrick. How everyone kept asking about me. She said at one point she felt so overwhelmed she fainted.

That they took her to the hospital, but the doctor said it was just nerves. I listened and thought about how convincing she was. She even threw in a fainting spell for dramatic effect.

Then Brenda brought up the insurance. Said she didn’t understand why Patrick had included her. That she never asked him to.

That she was willing to give up the money if it made me feel better. I told her she didn’t need to. That Patrick had wanted to help her, and we should respect his wishes.

She started crying harder. Said she didn’t deserve that kind of kindness. That Patrick was too good for this world.

If I hadn’t known the truth, I might have believed her. We stayed in the kitchen until evening. Brenda helped me go through Patrick’s belongings.

We packed up his clothes into boxes, decided what to donate, what to keep. Brenda kept stopping to cry over something, a shirt he loved, a book he’d been reading, a photo of the three of us, me, Patrick, and her, at her late husband’s birthday. I looked at that photo and tried to remember the day.

It was about a year and a half ago. Patrick had been especially attentive to Brenda. Helping her in the kitchen, entertaining guests, making sure her glass was never empty.

Back then, I thought he was just being kind to his wife’s younger sister. Now I realized, he’d already started seducing her. When Brenda was getting ready to leave, I walked her to the door.

She hugged me again and said she’d come back tomorrow. That she wouldn’t leave me alone during this hard time. I closed the door and leaned against it.

The house was silent. Boxes filled with Patrick’s things sat in the living room like monuments to a life that was no longer mine. I went to the bedroom and lay down on our bed.

The bed we’d shared for over ten years. Where we made love. Where we talked about the future.

Where I cried in his arms when we couldn’t have children. All of it felt fake now. I lay there in the dark, thinking about everything I’d learned in the past two days.

Patrick is alive. He’s with Brenda. They planned this for months.

They’ll collect the insurance money. And I’m left playing the part of a grieving widow. But the scariest part wasn’t even that.

The scariest part was not knowing who else knew. Patrick’s mother. His brother.

The doctors. The funeral home staff. How many people had laughed at me yesterday when I didn’t show up to the funeral.

I got up and walked to the hallway. I took out the coat I’d worn the morning I received the first letter. Reached into the pockets, just in case I’d left something there.

In the right pocket, I felt a piece of paper. Another letter. Same white envelope, same block letters.

I opened it with shaking hands. Inside was a single line, they’ve been planning this for months. He chose her.

I stood there, holding the second letter, feeling the ground slip from under me. They’ve been planning this for months. He chose her.

Simple words, but they shattered the last pieces of my denial. Someone knew everything. Someone had been watching them.

Watching me. Watching this entire performance. And that someone had decided to help me.

But why? And why now? I tucked the letter into the same box where I’d kept the first one and sat down on the couch. I needed to think. If they’d been planning this for months, then there must have been signs.

Signs I missed, or chose to ignore. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last few months of our marriage. When had it started? The first thing that came to mind was the phone calls.

Patrick had started taking calls in the other room. He never used to do that. We were always open with each other, never hid calls from friends, family, even colleagues.

But around three months ago, he started leaving the room every time his phone rang. Said it was work. Said he didn’t want to bother me with business talk.

I believed him. Like a fool. Then there were the trips.

Sudden, unplanned. Patrick would say he had to meet with clients in a nearby town, or that an urgent order had come in. He’d leave for a day, sometimes two.

He’d come back tired, quiet. I remember once asking him why he didn’t take me along like we used to. In the past, I’d sit in the car while he worked, and afterward we’d grab coffee or stroll through unfamiliar streets together.

He told me it was serious now, negotiations, important meetings, and that bringing a wife along would look unprofessional. Back then, it made sense. Now I knew the truth, he was going to see Brenda.

I got up and went to the bedroom. Opened the closet with Patrick’s clothes still hanging inside. Shirts, suits, ties.

Everything still smelled like his cologne. I started checking the pockets. In one blazer, I found a receipt from a cafe, dated a month ago.

I didn’t recognize the place. I looked it up online. It was in Brenda’s neighborhood.

In another pocket, a bus ticket. Headed in the same direction. I kept digging, and the evidence kept piling up.

Receipts from stores I’d never been to. Notes with addresses I didn’t know. Even a condom wrapper, we hadn’t used those in a long time.

Each discovery felt like another stab to the heart. I sat down on the bed and tried to remember how Patrick had changed in recent months. Not just the trips and the phone calls.

His behavior at home. Our relationship. He’d grown distant.

Not all at once, but gradually. Fewer hugs. Fewer kisses.

When I tried to be affectionate, he’d pull away. Said he was tired. Said he had a headache.

Said he had an early morning. We hardly slept together anymore. The last time was over a month ago.

I’d told myself it was just age, stress at work. I didn’t think much of it. But now I knew, he was already with Brenda.

The phone rang. It was my friend Jodi. We’d been friends since school, she was the one person I could really trust.

Jodi asked how I was doing. Said she was worried about me, that she wanted to come over and keep me company. I told her I was managing.

That I just needed some time to adjust to this new reality. Jodi went quiet for a moment, then said something that made my heart stop. She said she’d been meaning to tell me for a while but didn’t know how.

That she’d seen Patrick a few times in the neighborhood where Brenda lived. The last time was just a week ago. I asked if Brenda had been with him.

Jodi said she hadn’t seen her, but Patrick had come out of her building early in the morning. She apologized. Said she didn’t want to upset me with suspicions.

That she thought maybe it was something work-related. I thanked her for her honesty and asked her not to mention our conversation to anyone. After the call, I knew, I had to find out more.

If Jodi saw Patrick near Brenda’s building, then others might have too. Neighbors, people passing by, store clerks. I got dressed and went to Brenda’s neighborhood.

Not to her house, I wasn’t ready for that. Just to walk around. Talk to people.

First, I stopped at the grocery store near Brenda’s place. Behind the counter stood a tired-looking middle-aged woman. I bought a loaf of bread and started a casual conversation.

Told her I was Brenda’s sister, visiting from another city, and couldn’t remember the exact address, just that she lived somewhere nearby. The woman perked up. Said she knew Brenda.

That she shopped there often. And that recently, she’d started coming in with a man, tall, dark-haired, well-dressed. I asked how long he’d been around.

She thought for a moment, then said about three months. At first he came rarely, then more often. Lately, almost every day.

She added that they looked happy. That they bought groceries together, like a real couple. I thanked her and walked out…