At My Husband’s Funeral
I got a text from an unknown number:
“I’m alive. Don’t trust the children.”
I’m alive. That’s not me in the casket.
My world, already shattered, crumbled into dust. My hands trembled so hard I could barely type a reply.
Who are you?
The answer stole my breath.
I can’t say. They’re watching. Don’t trust our sons.
My eyes flew to Charles and Henry, my boys, standing by the coffin with expressions of eerie calm. Their tears looked rehearsed, their hugs as cold as the November air. Something was deeply wrong.
That moment split my life in two — the one I thought I had, and the horrifying truth just beginning to unravel.
