I stepped into my eight-month-pregnant
St. Mark’s Funeral Home was filled with lilies as my eight-month-pregnant daughter, Emily, lay in a mahogany coffin. She should have been preparing a nursery, not a funeral.
The grief felt unreal — until I saw her husband, Jason, standing beside the casket with another woman. He leaned close to me and whispered, “After today, I’m free.”
Before I could react, Emily’s attorney asked everyone to remain. Jason muttered, “Let’s get this over with.”
Then the lawyer revealed a condition in Emily’s will: her life insurance, savings, and share of the house were placed in a trust for the baby. Access required confirmed paternity.
“That’s my kid,” Jason snapped, but his confidence faded.
Then a letter was read aloud. Emily had uncovered his affair, suspicious payments, and money given to a mechanic
before her brakes failed. She had saved screenshots, receipts, and recordings — evidence set to go to police.
In that moment, I realized Emily had anticipated betrayal. Jason thought he had found freedom. Instead, she had prepared for justice.
