The funeral was scheduled quickly. A closed casket because of the trauma, they said. White lilies covered every surface. The pastor spoke softly about angels and peace. The town gathered in their Sunday clothes, whispering condolences, hugging my parents, avoiding my eyes.
I sat in the front pew with my mother and father. My hands were locked together so tightly my fingers went numb. I stared at the casket and imagined my sister inside, still pregnant, still hopeful, still believing she had time.
Then the church doors opened. Brandon walked in wearing a black suit that fit too well. His hair was styled. His shoes shined. He looked like a man attending a business meeting. And on his arm was a tall woman in a fitted black dress, her long hair curled, her hand resting on his bicep like she owned the space.
The room shifted. A ripple of disbelief moved through the pews.
My mother inhaled sharply. “Is he serious,” she whispered.
My father gripped the bench.
I stared at the woman. I had seen her once in a photograph on Abigail phone when a message popped up by accident. A name. Tiffany.
I leaned forward, ready to stand, ready to scream, ready to drag her out by her expensive hair. My father touched my shoulder.
“Not here,” he murmured. “Not now.”
Brandon guided Tiffany to the front row, to the seat that should have been mine if I were the widow. Tiffany leaned her head on his shoulder. He patted her hand like a loving partner. The hypocrisy burned my chest.
The pastor began the service. Words floated through the air. Kindness. Memory. Hope. Baby. I heard almost nothing. I watched Brandon jaw clench when certain prayers mentioned faithfulness. I watched Tiffany glance around like she was checking who noticed her.
After the final hymn, people began to stand. That was when a man in a gray suit walked calmly to the front. He carried a leather briefcase and a thin folder. His expression was steady, almost gentle.
He cleared his throat.
“My name is Walter Lawson,” he said. “I was Abigail legal representative. She left specific instructions for this day.”
Brandon turned sharply. “This is not the time,” he said loudly. “We are grieving.”
Mr. Lawson did not move.
“She asked that her will be read today,” he replied. “In the presence of her family. And in the presence of her husband.”
A hush fell over the church. Phones rose discreetly. Whispers stopped.