The morning after my husband’s passing, I returned to our home only to discover the locks had been replaced—and his mother settling her belongings into my kitchen. “You’re merely a widow with no claim. This house is ours now!” she scoffed with a smirk. I met her gaze in silence, then let a faint smile cross my lips—they’d overlooked something crucial…

What? You erased yourself the moment you tried to rewrite who he was, the moment you broke into our home, stole his things, lied under oath. Ethan knew who you were, Diana. That’s why he wrote the letter.

That’s why he signed the post-nup. Her face cracked, not much but enough. I leaned in and, if you come near me again, I won’t need a courtroom to protect myself.

I’ve already filed the restraining order. She stepped back. You can’t keep me from his funeral, she hissed.

I already did, I replied without raising my voice. I called the funeral home the morning after you changed the locks. Your name is off the list.

If you show up, they’ll escort you out. Her mouth twisted. You vindictive little… No, I said, cutting her off.

I’m not vindictive. I’m free. And I walked away, head high, not once looking back.

The chapel smelled like lilies and cedar polish. It was Tuesday, exactly one week after Ethan’s heart gave out. The service had been scheduled for noon, but by 11.15, the pews were already filling.

Friends, neighbors, a few of Ethan’s old clients. Some had driven in from Atlanta, others from Charleston. Many hadn’t seen us in years.

I’m so sorry, they whispered as they hugged me. He loved you so much. He always talked about your garden plans.

He said you were the only calm he ever knew. I nodded, smiled softly, swallowed words I couldn’t afford to speak. Angela arrived just before 11.30 and sat quietly near the front, not as my attorney today, but as a friend.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. The musicians tuned quietly in the corner.

The minister stood near the altar, flipping through notes. The urns sat on a small table wrapped in blue velvet, Ethan’s favorite color. I’d chosen it myself.

And then I saw them, two silhouettes slipping into the back pew, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking. But I was Diana, Jocelyn, dressed in black, perfectly coordinated, hair pinned, veils subtle but unmistakable, morning clothes, theater costumes, masks. They weren’t on the guest list.

I’d made sure of that. The funeral home had assured me they would be stopped at the door, but someone must have looked away at the wrong moment. And now, there they were, pretending to belong.

I stood frozen for a moment, staring across the chapel. My breath caught. My heart pounded, not from grief but fury.

I had buried Ethan once already. I would not let them dig him up for show. Angela turned toward me, slightly.

Want me to handle it, she whispered. I shook my head. No.

I would do it myself. I walked slowly down the aisle, heels echoing in the sudden silence. Every head turned.