Three months after Mom died, Dad announced he was getting married again. The timing felt impossible. The house still held her presence: slippers by the couch, her coat at the door, the soft lavender scent lingering in the hallway.
Robert and I were summoned for a “small family meeting.” That’s when Dad introduced his fiancée—not a stranger, not a long-time friend—but Laura, Mom’s younger sister.
He spoke calmly about grief, loneliness, and finding comfort in someone who understood the same loss. I tried to nod, telling myself grief can twist people into choices they never imagined—but something didn’t feel right.
The wedding happened fast, almost as if it were meant to be over before questions could form. Quiet vows, stiff smiles, polite congratulations—normalcy forced. Then Robert arrived late, pale and tight-lipped, pressing a sealed envelope into my hands.
A lawyer had contacted him that morning. Mom’s instructions were clear: this letter was to be opened only if Dad remarried.
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